#and what does that leave you but a burned down barn and ghosts and shoes that you can never fill

[sircarolyn]

thinking about HER

[unwrittenlibrary]

when my time comes around (lay me gently in the cold, dark earth)

summary -> bucky wasn’t perfect, but he was a good man.

words -> 1.4k

warnings -> MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH, dealing with said death, religious themes, google translate russian (roughly translates to love of my life) spoiler he doesn’t come back to life

notes -> sometimes… when you’re stressed, you write angst. after this piece it will most likely be awhile as i focus on much longer pieces i desperately want to finish. title from work song by hozier….love of my life…. hozier if ur out there im free everyday for u

— ➶ —

It’s like cold has washed over you permanently. Which, well, which is a sick sense of irony when you think too hard about it.

He was here one minute and gone the next. Bucky was here, laughing by your side and pulling you close to press kisses against your cheeks one day and the next you were falling to your knees with Sam’s arms trying to hold you up.

How could he just leave? Just die?

It’s like ghosts are phasing through you over and over and over again. Flashes of cold mixed with burns that leave your skin tingling.

How could Bucky leave you?

“Promise me.” You whisper into the night. Bucky’s hand is intertwined with yours. So tight you think you may lose circulation but you don’t care. “You and me. Forever.”

“I promise.” Bucky’s knuckle grazes your cheekbone. You lean into his touch. “Nothing is keeping me from coming home to you, my love.”

Did a promise count as kept if he came home in a casket?

His funeral is on a Friday in the middle of fall. Leaves are brown, orange, red and scattered across the grass you walk across. They crunch under each step, you grimace every-time. Sam’s hand is intertwined with yours, Sarah and her boys trailing behind you two.

You don’t listen to what anyone says. All you can think of is Bucky not being the one by your side.

“Bucky’s fiancée is going to say a few words.” You think it’s odd that you’ve gotten a priest. Bucky had been through so much, what person comes out the other side believing in a just God who put them through hell? “Please.” He steps aside, your train of thought cut short.

“What do you think happens when you die?” Bucky asks so quietly you almost don’t hear him. “Do you… Do you believe on heaven?”

You turn to look at him with furrowed brows. “Do you?”

“I don’t know.” He won’t look at you. Bucky’s eyes are stuck to your ceiling fan as his fingers tap anxiously against his stomach. “Even if I did, I don’t think I’d be there.”

It’s a small crowd. You supposes that’s not surprising. Those who knew Bucky before Hydra were dead, Steve was gone. T’Challa is here though. Shuri too. Grim looks on their faces as they come to stand beside Sam while you step forward to make your speech.

You open your mouth, but no words come out. The speech you’ve written is held so tightly in between your fingers that it rips. You flinch at the sound a jarring reminder that Bucky had always been the one to unravel your tightly wound fists when the stress became too much. That he would no longer be able to do so.

Who would now?

Your eyes trail over the casket, an American flag draped over it, and you laugh. A hysterical fit of laughter that has people looking around uncomfortably.

“How does a man live through one of the worst wars the world has even seen just to…” You trail off. Tears are burning in your eyes and you can’t care enough to force them back. “Bucky Barnes was a good man. He wanted to right his wrongs in the world.”

You crumple the pre-written speech up entirely. “He wasn’t perfect. He… He never made his side of the bed. He always left his shoes lying around for me to trip on. Then laughed about it,” you smile grimly at the memory.

“Bucky!” You groan as you cradle your knee close to your chest. You can feel the throbbing pain of what no doubt will be a gigantic bruise across you knee cap.

He looks over his shoulder from the couch to stare at where you’ve fallen in the entry hallway. You glare as amusement dances in his eyes. “Yes, любовь всей моей жизни?”

“Don’t try and sweet talk me.” You can’t stop the smile as you climb to your feet. “It won’t work. How many times have I told you to put your shoes away? I didn’t build the shoe rack for nothing.”

Bucky laughs brightly. He walks over to you with a big smile that you know will kill your anger within minutes. “Brat.” Your murmur as his arms wrap around you.

You glance down at your feet. “He didn’t believe in separating colors so our laundry always had color bleeds.” You swallow thickly. “He broke promises. He… He was supposed to come home. He promised to come home.” Your voice is choked up and tears stream down your cheeks.

“But he was good.” You force out. “He once asked me if I believed in heaven or hell and I… I still don’t know the answer,” you glance at the priest, who just looks at you with pity, “but I do know Bucky was good to his core and whatever there is after death, he’s in a good place. I hope you all find comfort in that.”

As you step back into Sam’s space, soldiers step forward. It had been Sam’s idea to give him a veteran’s honor funeral.

You can’t say thank you when they hand over the folded flag because your legs give out underneath you. It’s like the flag being placed in your hands made it all official.

You crash to the ground, the leaves screech underneath your knees and the wet grass soaks through your black clothing but nothing matters. Not when Bucky was being lowered six feet into the ground and you were still waiting for it all to be a joke.

“Breathe.” Sam says softly as he kneels down beside you. It’s impossible though, all that comes out are choked breaths and sniffles as you clutch the flag close to your chest. “You’re okay. Breathe.” He tries again, rubbing a hand up and down your back.

“Marry me.” Bucky blurts. It’s three in the morning and you should both be asleep, but it was hard when each episode ended on a cliff hanger. You laugh, and Bucky shakes his head with a smile. “I’m serious, marry me.”

Your heart nearly stops. “W…What?”

“I was going to,” Bucky rummages through his nightstand drawer as he speaks, “do this later. At dinner or the park, but this… This feels right - ah hah! - So, marry me?”

He turns to you with a ring in hand. Your mouth falls open in shock while he grins smugly.

“любовь всей моей жизни.” Bucky murmurs when you don’t respond right away. There are small ticks of nervousness, the way he vibranium fingers clench and unclench or the small smile that overtakes his smug grin. “Marry me?”

Like you would ever say no.

You visit all the time. Your therapist says however you want to grieve is okay. Nobody can judge you, but you can sense visiting him everyday doesn’t help you move on. Could you ever really move on though? Bucky was a piece of you, a part that you would never get back.

“I miss you everyday.” You whisper. “Not a day goes by that I don’t wake up and for a brief second look for you then realize…” You fiddle with the ring still on your left hand. “I’m doing better though. I… I’m working again. Sam and I go out to dinner once a week. I’m trying. I know you would’ve wanted me to try, so that’s what I’m doing.”

“I love you.” You say softly. “любовь всей моей жизни.”

You stand hastily wiping the tears off of your cheek, the metal now glaringly absent from your hand.

All that’s left of Bucky Barnes is a headstone surrounded by flowers, a flag and a diamond ring.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Here Lies James Buchanan ‘Bucky’ Barnes

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Sergeant 107th

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎WWII

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Prisoner of War

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Beloved son, brother, friend and partner.

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Not perfect, but good.

— ➶ —

notes -> this is bad i’m just bleh. i forgot how rough school and work was because i was lucky enough to not have to work last semester. have a safe week 💗

[freedom-of-writing]

Life turned her that way

Just a nice heart to heart between Nicole and Wynonna taking place after the intervention at the beginning of episode 4x10

“Do you want me to stay?”

“No, you have to go.”

Nicole leaves the house with a heavy heart. Today’s her first day back as sheriff. She didn’t think she had it in her to walk in those shoes again. In the past, her uniform had always made her feel strong and in control, but for 18 months all she could feel was alone, and completely lost. Wynonna went into the Garden to save Waverly, and Doc, while she had to go home, alone and broken. Literally broken. And, yes, it’s true, she wasn’t actually alone, Rachel was with her. But half her family was gone. And then Black Badge showed up, Nedley disappeared, and Jeremy went MIA. Little by little, she’d lost everything: her job, her dignity, her hope. Her heart. Waverly Earp was her heart, and she was beginning to fear she’d lost her forever. At last, she was so afraid of losing Rachel as well that she put all her strength into protecting her, to the point that it was consuming her. Growing up she had always been a loner. She was used to being independent, but here in Purgatory she had finally found a team to work and fight with. And yet in that moment, she was all alone against the world. Again. She had nobody to talk to about the darkness inside her, because Rachel was still just a kid, who’d gone through a lot herself, and she didn’t want her to deal with her own shit as well. In the end, she was so blinded by fear and despair that she couldn’t even see it was Nedley she’d been haunting for so long. And she even traded Doc to the Clantons to get Waverly back. She knew he would’ve been able to take care of himself, he always does, but still. If she weren’t so desperate, she would’ve looked for some more options for sure. She’s not the type to betray her friends and family like that. But 18 months is a long time to be alone. And she couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t sleep anymore. She could barely live. The only thing keeping her going was Rachel. That kid was the only reason to get out of bed every morning, and not let herself slip away.

Nicole is about to get into her car to go to the station, when she hears some noises coming from the barn. For a second she tells herself that Wynonna needs time, and she should just leave her alone. But then a voice inside her head makes her change her mind. You might lose her again, and you didn’t even try. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she walks to the barn door, and knocks lightly calling for her friend.

“Wynonna…”

“Get back to your perfect life, Haught!” A voice answers from the inside in a very harsh tone.

Nicole ignores it, and lets herself in. Screw time, she is not going to risk losing her best friend again, not when she can try and save her. Once she’s in, she finds Wynonna sitting on her bed and playing with a bullet in her hands.

“Perfect… if you really think my life is perfect, then you don’t know me at all.”

“What do you want from me, huh?” Wynonna tries to sound annoyed, but the emotion in her voice makes her sound more broken than anything. “I thought me storming out was a clear sign of ‘intervention’s over’.”

“Wynonna, we’re just worried about you...”

“Well, you can stop worrying now because I’m fine.” The small crack in her voice made her sound all but convincing.

“Sure you are…” Nicole says with a scoff as she moves to sit on the bed next to Wynonna.

“Can you just leave, please?” Wynonna begs in the smallest of voices as tears come streaming down her face.

Nicole looks at her for a moment, and then she turns to stare at somewhere in front of her. She takes a deep breath, gathering the strength to say what she’s about to say. It’s a secret she’s been keeping from everybody, even Waverly. But maybe talking about it could help both her and Wynonna. Ignoring her friend’s request, she starts speaking.

“I wake up every day in the middle of the night and have to check on Waverly and Rachel to see if they’re still with me. I even check on you most nights.” She pauses a second, waiting for Wynonna’s reaction. She expected her to say something mean, or to tell her to leave again, but she doesn’t. She doesn’t need to turn towards her to see that her words have gotten Wynonna’s attention, and she’s now looking at her. Taking that as an invitation to continue, she takes a deep breath and she resumes her tale. “One night it was 4am and you weren’t in your bed… I panicked so bad I couldn’t breathe. Then I looked better and saw you were passed out on the floor in a corner of the barn. I didn’t want to wake you, so I got the blanket from your bed to cover you up, and then, I put the pillow under your head. The truth is, you were so out of it, I don’t think a bomb could’ve waken you. But my heart was racing so bad, my hands were shaking, and it was still hard for me to breathe. So I left you there on the floor, and went back to sleep. Well, to bed. I forced myself to stay awake. I just didn’t want to see it again.” Nicole’s voice is so small and broken when she says that last part.

Wynonna doesn’t need to see the look in her eyes to know Nicole’s lost somewhere in her mind. And by the sound of her voice, it must be a really dark place that she’s in. All of a sudden, a rush of worry hits her, because she’s never seen Nicole like this. Not even when she was vomiting frogs all over the place.

“How bad is Nicole?”

“She was alone for a really long time.”

As she recalls Rachel’s words, her attention moves from Nicole’s face down to her hand on her thigh. It’s curled up in a fist, and her nails are digging hard into the flesh of her palm. As gently as she can, Wynonna slips her hand under her friend’s forcing her own fingers into the fist. She waits for Nicole to let go of the tight grip, and when she does she clasps her hand giving it a reassuring squeeze. She would like to say something to bring her friend back to reality, but she doesn’t know what to say. She has absolutely no idea what is happening inside her head, or what she meant when she said she didn’t want to see it again. But at least the touch seems to have worked because she can feel Nicole squeezing back lightly. Wynonna doesn’t push her to continue, she just waits for her to be ready to speak again. At last, with a deep breath, Nicole goes on with her story.

“I have the same nightmare every night... I’m at the homestead, it’s morning and I’m making breakfast. I go upstairs to wake Rachel up, but she’s not in her room. So I start calling out for her, but I get no answer. I start panicking as I look for her in every room of the house. But I can’t find her anywhere. She’s not there. It’s just me. I’m alone. By then, I can hardly breathe, but I still take the shotgun and start looking for her outside. I don’t know where I’m going. My eyes are blurred with tears, and my lungs are burning, but I keep running, and calling... And then suddenly I’m on Dolls’s grave. I take a step back in confusion, and I see there are other tombstones next to his. I start reading the names: you, Doc, Jeremy, Nedley... I’m afraid to look but there’s two more. Rachel... and Waverly. Then a voice comes out of nowhere: They’re all dead because you were too weak to even try to save them. They trusted you, and you did nothing to protect them. You deserve to be alone. You were never worthy of their love. I turn to see where it’s coming from, but... all I see are the ghosts of the people I love. But when I take a step towards you, you all disappear. All but Waverly. She stands there, looking at me with tears in her eyes. Why? I thought you loved me... So why didn’t you fight? She asks, and then she’s gone too.” Nicole becomes suddenly aware of the wetness on her cheeks.

“Nicole...” Wynonna tries to call her back to reality. She can hear her ragged breathing as she’s struggling to get air into her lungs. She’s never seen Nicole so broken before, and it is scaring her. She doesn’t know what to do, how to help, she’s usually the broken one.

“You’re all dead because of me...” Nicole’s voice is barely above a whisper, but Wynonna hears it loud and clear, and those words break her heart.

That’s it. She has to bring her back. She can’t take seeing her best friend like this anymore. Without letting go of Nicole’s hand, she falls onto her knees in front of her. Then she brings her free hand up to her chin to tilt her head up gently.

“Nicole, hey, look at me.” Nothing.

“Haught!” She screams this time, and at last, Nicole snaps out of it. “We’re not dead. Do you hear me? No one. Is dead.” She says staring straight into Nicole’s eyes, which are completely welled up in tears.

As gently as she can, she brushes her thumb onto her cheeks to wipe away the tears that keep streaming down her face. She can feel the tears forming in her eyes as well, but she doesn’t let them fall. She can’t cry now. Nicole needs her to be strong.

“We’re here.” Wynonna says grabbing both of Nicole’s hands and giving them a squeeze. She hopes the touch will further prove her words. “I’m here.”

She takes a sigh of relief when she sees Nicole’s eyes starting to focus on hers. She’s back.

“You can breathe now.”

And with that, Nicole slumps forward into Wynonna’s arms, sobbing hard in the crook of her neck. Everything she’s been holding back in the past 18 months, the pain, the loss, the fear, the despair... all that she’s been hiding from both Waverly and Rachel has finally come to the surface. And it’s the strangest feeling ever, because for the first time in so long, she can actually breathe again, even if the sobs are wrecking and chocking her.

“I’m here. We’re all here.” Wynonna says over and over in her ear in an attempt to calm her down.

And it is in that moment, as she holds a broken Nicole in her arms, that Wynonna makes a promise to herself and to her friends: no matter how hard it is, she will overcome this darkness inside her and she will start to take care of herself, because her family is worth staying for.

“We’re gonna be okay. I promise.”

[writeroutoftime]

lost in love and time - chapter three

@readermia, @mgk-rooklover1997, @crazinessgraveyardsandcartoons, @dabooks23, @loser-alert, @themeanestlittlewitch, @peaches-roses-sins, @tiffanynguyen03 @t33n-tw4t @tinymalscoffee @diana-24-world, @ducky1901​

CATCH UP - CHAPTER TWO

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

summary: haunted mansion au - as the night wears on, things start to become even stranger, and where are Sam and Natasha?

warnings: none

words: 2162

a/n: hello everyone! sorry for my little absence from this series, but I am back and ready to write! please let me know if you think the jumps between scenes in this chapter are confusing because it’s something I want to continue doing for the rest of the series. anyway, please enjoy and have a fabulous day! 

(this chapter does contain some dialogue from the movie, which I am not taking credit for)

There was only silence between the two as Pierce escorted Sam down the lonely halls of the mansion and towards the library. Despite the loneliness, the library was just as impressive as the dining hall, though slightly dusty and overflowed with hefty volumes of outdated volumes. By the time Sam processed all this, however, Pierce had disappeared before Sam could ask about Mr. Barnes’ whereabouts. Content to wait, Sam made himself comfortable in a cushioned chair behind the desk, which was scattered with books and old papers and ink stains here and there.

Next to the desk was an odd marble bust with a healthy coating of dust. Carefully, Sam inspected the bust and when he brushed the dust off top of the statue, its head fell backwards, though more like the hinge on a door. Worried that Sam had just destroyed some price heirloom, he rushed to push the head back into place, and found it did so with ease. Confused, he hesitantly pushed the head back again and saw that it hadn’t actually broken off. It was in that moment that Sam heard the whoosh of a door sliding and glanced over his shoulder.

Where there had once been a simple bookshelf, then transformed into a secret passage that opened to reveal a dark, damp, stone hallway that perhaps had been a servant’s entrance at one point. Against his better judgement, Sam walked towards the passageway and stepped inside to see if anyone or anything was there. As soon as Sam stepped through the passage, however, the door immediately closed behind him with a resounding thud, and Sam was thrown into pitch black darkness.

“Hey, let me out!” he shouted and turned to pound on the stone wall to no avail. Quickly, he fished his phone out his pocket, because while there was no way on earth his phone would pick up any service, the flashlight still worked just fine. The now illuminated hallway showed a seemingly endless hallway littered with cobwebs. “y/n, Nat. This is not funny.” Sam said, his voice hardening to conceal the fear he felt. “Mr. Barnes? I didn’t mean to go snooping through your things, you can let me out now.”

Again, met with silence, Sam decided that the only way he would find a way out would be to walk down the hallway and see where he ended up. While almost every nerve in his body screamed that this was a bad idea, Sam trudged on, praying that he would soon find an exit and that morning would come so the three of you could finally put this place behind you.

oOoOo

Thanking Steve for showing you to the room you would occupy for the night, he offered a small bow before he hurried back into the expansive corridors of the mansion. Alone in your room, you took the time to examine how the room had been furnished to be consistent with the rest of the design in the mansion. While the dated decorations and bedspread would have turned most people away, there was something appealing and, perhaps, familiar as you ghosted your hand over the mantle above the fireplace. 

It wasn’t long before you found yourself unable to sleep, so you slid on your shoes and wandered into the hall, hoping that Sam and Natasha were close by. Because had Steve showed you to your rooms while Pierce had taken Natasha and Sam in the opposite direction, you weren’t sure how to get around. While the mansion was beautiful, it was massive and very easy to get lost in. Each time you turned down another hallway, you feared that you were simply making a circle and not actually headed anywhere.

You watched the bottoms of the doors, looking for light to illustrate if the room was occupied, but all of them were dark. The strange thing was, however, you swore you could here something moving behind some of the doors, but when you went to open them, you found them locked. At one point, you found yourself back in the front entrance you had first stepped in a few hours ago, and you sighed in defeat as you walked the semi-familiar path back towards the dining room.

Pushing the ornate doors open, you walked inside and saw that most of the dishes had been cleared and the large fire was dying down as the rain still pounded outside. However, those noises drowned out as the familiar, melodic tune found its way back to you once more, and it was only when you heard the clatter of plates behind you did you realize that you were not alone.

“Oh, Peggy.” you greeted with a smile as you waved at the woman you met at dinner. “Let me help you.” you said and began to help her pick up the fallen dishes.  

“Really, it’s fine, Miss. y/l/n.” she said, though her eyes flittered nervously around the room. “What are you doing out of bed?

You shook your head with a slight chuckle. “Please don’t worry about all that ‘Miss” nonsense, just call me y/n. And, I couldn’t sleep, so I tried to find Sam and Nat, but ended up getting lost.” you admitted sheepishly.

Peggy tried to return your smile, but it come across forced as she stood up once more and attempted to collect her bearings.

“Are you alright?” you asked her and reached out to try and place a comforting hand on her shoulder.

Before you could, she stepped out of your reach and lowered her voice to a sharp whisper. “I’m alright, Miss- y/n.” she began. “But you and your friends must leave in the morning, right away.”

“Did we do something wrong?” you asked, a frown now on your face.

“No, but I fear that-“  

“What is it you fear, Mrs. Rogers?” Pierce’s cold voice cut across the room and you watched Peggy stiffen with fear as Pierce crossed to stand next to her.

“Nothing, sir.” Peggy breathed shakily, glancing down at the floor.

Pierce shifted his gaze between the two of you for a few, tense moments before he nodded his head. “Then I suggest you return to the kitchen and tell that buffoon of a husband that I need to speak to him.”

Peggy nodded submissively, though you could see a fury burning under her skin, ready for the moment she could tell Pierce off, and you didn’t blame her. If Tony treated you a fraction of the way Pierce treated Peggy and Steve, you would quit without hesitation, but not before knocking him down a few pegs.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Pierce, but have you seen Sam or Natasha? I need to talk to them.” you finally spoke up, directing the butler’s full attention to you.

“Is that what you need Miss. y/l/n? Because I need the staff and guests of this manor to remember their place, or does that seem too difficult for you, you impertinent girl?” he growled, and your eyes widened in shock and fear. Just as suddenly as the outburst had come about, though, Pierce quickly returned to his cool, uninterested demeanor. “My apologizes, Miss. It has been a rather stressful evening.”

“O-of course.” you told him and subtly took a step back, unable to ignore the sinister feeling you got when he was around. “I’ll just return to my room then.”

Pierce looked surprised but let the matter drop. “Splendid.” he told you and stalked off to brood in another corner of the mansion.

oOoOo

As Sam walked along the stone passage, his flashlight illuminated a series of doors that he could not open from that side. It wasn’t until he felt as though he had been walking forever, that, finally, a door opened, freeing Sam from the secret passage. Closing the door behind him, Sam noticed the only option was to walk up a set of rickety, old stairs that led to another door. With a deep breath, he ascended the stairs and opened the door at the top, wincing at the loud creek that followed.

The next room Sam stepped into seemed to be the attic of the manor, filled with dozens of trunks that were stacked one on top of another and old portraits and other antiques that were covered in cobwebs and dust. “What is going on here?” Sam wondered out loud. With each new discovery, this mansion became stranger and stranger.

Suddenly, Sam heard the creak of floorboards and froze in his spot. He wasn’t sure who else would be up here, but he figured they wouldn’t appreciate that he was up there. In his attempt to make it back to the door unnoticed, Sam felt himself bump into a solid mass and let out a shout of surprise, that seemingly echoed throughout the attic.

“Sam? What are you doing here?” Natasha asked through grit teeth once she realized she wasn’t in any immediate danger.

“I’m was trying to get back to the room. What are you doing here?” he hissed back.

Natasha’s annoyed expression switched to one of genuine concern. “You were gone for so long that I thought something happened to you. I tried to find the library, but somehow ended up here.”

“Great! Now we’re both lost and stuck in the creepy-“ Sam began to rant before his voice trailed off as his eyes glanced around the room before they landed on an old portrait, partially hidden behind some boxes.

Natasha followed Sam’s line of sight in confusion as he walked to the portrait and carefully dragged it out so that they could get a better look. Both he and Natasha let out a gasp of surprise as they studied the subject of the painting and realized that she looked incredibly familiar – she looked like you.

“Neither of you should be here.” a voice spoke from behind Natasha and Sam causing the two of them to let out another shout of surprise.

Turning to look at who was now in the attic, Nat watched as Steve and Peggy walked closer to both her and Sam. “Okay, what the hell is going on, and why does that portrait look exactly like y/n?”

oOoOo

Once you were completely sure Pierce had walked away and wouldn’t catch you off guard again, you headed in a new direction, determined to find your friends. Eventually you stumbled into the library and called out. “Sam? Nat? Are you guys here?”

What you hadn’t expected was for Bucky to be sitting in one of the chairs, standing with a pile of books in his hands when you entered the room. “Oh, Mr. Barnes, I’m sorry I didn’t know you were in here. I was just looking for my associates.” you said, trying to hold onto any sense of professionalism.

“I thought I already told you to call me Bucky.” he reminded you with a wink. “Though, I am sorry, I have not seen your friends. I was just trying to tidy up before Pierce has a chance to yell at me for keeping a messy study.”

A smile crossed your face at Bucky’s action, though it was hard to keep the resentment out of your voice when you spoke of the butler. “He does seem the type of person to keep everyon-everything in its place.”  

“Yes, he does come across that way.” Bucky admitted, glancing down at the books he held. “But he has been there for me my whole life, almost like a father to me.”

There was a moment of silence as Bucky glanced up and stared at you in adoration until your curiosity couldn’t hold off any longer. “Bucky, do you mind if I ask you a question?”

“Anything.” he whispered and set the books to the side to step closer to you.

“This house is beautiful and as you’ve mentioned it’s been in your family for generations. It must be like a home to you. Why do you wish to sell it?”

It took a moment for Bucky to respond as he chose his word carefully. “These walls are filled with so many memories. Some of them very painful.” he told you and you could see the sorrow in his eyes. “Why don’t I show you?” he offered and held out his arm for you to take.

There was a moment of hesitation, but even though you had only known Bucky for a short time, you already felt safe around him. Accepting his invitation, you linked your arm with his, and when your arms touched, you let out a quiet gasp at the sudden and intense feeling of safety and familiarity. For the briefest second, there was a flash of Bucky and a woman you seemed to know – almost like a memory. Then, just as quickly as it had come to you, the flashback and the sensation died down.  

“It’s alright. There’s nothing to be afraid of.” Bucky reassured you with a smile that you returned before he began to lead you off.

oOoOo

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[patchoulimademoiselle]

Guilty. (Part 1.)

Part One.

Steve Rogers (Lawyer AU) x Reader Insert. 

Word count: 3.8k

Warnings: Work place romance, smoking, self destructive habits, language, adult themes. (No smut just yet lol.) 

Masterlist. 

Part One: 

Your cell phone rings, a sound that pulls a loud groan from the back of your throat, the sandwich in your hand thrown down onto your desk as you blindly dig through your purse for it, eyes sharp as you stare at the girl sitting across from you, Wanda. "It's my boss," Your tone is clipped as you look down, "Stay quiet."

You sigh, push your hair from your face as if he could see how relaxed you were moments ago, muster up a second wind of energy, and rise to your feet as you take the call. "Steve, finished so soon?"

"Cut the shit, Y/n." He's speaking over the plastic straw between his teeth, sipping on an iced coffee no doubt. "I know you're goofing off with that stupid assistant of yours."

You're lucky he isn't on speaker, and you walk quickly out of Wanda's ear shot. "Be nice! She's new, just like I was."

He hums, the sound of his dress shoes clicking against pavement and cars driving past tells you he's walking. "But you were never dull, never as dense. You wouldn't still work for me otherwise."

You, an assistant, were gifted your own assistant. The work load you take on under Rogers overwhelms the responsibility you still have at the firm, and so they decided to assign someone under you, unheard of and argued among the people above you, but Steve thought it was a good idea. All he saw was dollar signs, you moving up with your reputation and gifting him a chance to charge more for both of your services in the court room.

But Wanda was young, too young to understand the importance of the work she does here, too hung up on boys and partying to see her job as anything other than a job.

"You didn't call me to talk about this." You push open the doors to the balcony in his office, stepping outside for fresh air.

"No, I didn't. I'm done with my client, I'm sending you my location."

He doesn't give you a chance to protest, hanging up the call, a text message coming through seconds later. You groan, heeled foot tapping on the pavement as you weigh your options. You had expected to have at least another two hours free to train Wanda, but that had just been stolen from right under your nose.

You count your steps back to your desk, a nervous tick you picked up in law school, plopping back down to finish your sandwich, roasted turkey breast with all the trimming.

"Wanda," You speak over half chewed food, manners gone out the window in your rush to find an excuse to slip away. "I've been called out, something important has come up with a new client." Her eyes snap up to you from the stack of papers in front of her. "I'll be back as soon as I can, just stay by your phone and I'll let you know what's going on."

She looks nervous, never left here in your office alone before, and you feel bad, remembering how it felt to be new in such a large place. This was a building full of people with their heads in their asses, established lawyers with years of experience under their belts. She was prey among wolves, protected only by your presence, and now you were leaving her.

"Don't leave this office unless it's to use the bathroom." You say. "Don't be loud, don't speak to anyone, keep your head down and stay out of trouble."

All things you wish Steve had told you, all things you had to learn on your own. It's hard being a woman studying law, you're automatically ruled out simply for being a woman.

You offer her a gentle smile, reaching into your wallet and pulling out a twenty dollar bill. "Door Dash some food if you want, or waste it in the vending machine, just remember to take a break and hydrate yourself."

She looks doe eyed, "Thank you." She says, and you're tempted to just bring her along and shove her into the back seat of your car, tell her to stay quiet and to not repeat anything she might hear.

But Steve would throw a fit, you can see it now, a ghost of a smile coats your lips as you leave her behind, stuffing the last of your sandwich into your mouth as you scoop up your purse.

You're tired, Steve called you in early this morning to get some work done before your assistant was scheduled to come in. A new case was dropped on his desk, and you made arrangements for him to meet with his new client immediately. He took a cab, slightly annoyed that you weren't free to take him there, but there was no excuse now, not with your assistant busy at work, you could slip away for a little while to do the second part of your job, assist big shot lawyer Steve Rogers.

The address he gave you was a coffee shop, but naturally he's walked a good block away from it by now, bored and restless in the city of New York waiting around for you, and you honk your horn when you see him walking, phone pressed to his ear.

He gets in, tossing his brief case in the back seat, pressing his phone to his chest. "Find some food? I could go for a burger."

Steve is very particular about what he eats, especially all American classics. He's craving something greasy probably, a nice greasy sloppy burger with salty fries and a thick shake. You're slightly pissed that you ate already, because eating again will ruin your appetite for dinner, but you wouldn't turn down the opportunity for good food, especially if Steve is going to be paying.

He wraps up his phone call just as you swing by Five Guys, parallel parking across the street from the diner. He stares at you for a moment, eyes squinted and glaring until you pull a face at him. "What?" You ask, shifting in your seat.

"This case is being paid for by the state, our client has no money." He says, "He's suing because of wage violations."

You shrug, settling back into your seat, not understanding his tone or expression. "So? This is easy for you."

"It's against Stark Industries."

You frown, eyebrows knit. "Oh shit."

"Yeah," His chuckle is almost nervous, pushing the car door open to get out. "Shit."

You walk across the street together, and you make a show of clinging to his arm for support. He glares down at you, but let's you, baby blue's almost welcoming your touch as he helps you across the street. Then he's shrugging you off and ushering you inside the diner.

"I'll pay," He says. "But the next one is on you."

You kiss his cheek in thanks, whispering your order in his ear and then ducking off into the ladies room, running wet fingers through your hair and swiping on a new coat of smudge proof lipstick.

Your relationship with Steve Rogers is a complicated one. There's chemistry, obvious chemistry that often leaves you flustered, just like this, but he refuses to do anything about it. In fact, you've talked about it before, the backs of your thighs pressed to his desk top as he kissed you, telling you that he couldn't, wouldn't go any farther because if his career has taught him anything at all it's that you don't shit where you eat. If word got out that you two were an item, you would be torn to shreds in the court room, all credibility out of the window, and he would be forced to fire you to save his reputation.

But it's still there, lingering in the way he looks at you and talks to you. That fire is still there, and one day it was going to consume you both.

You undo a couple buttons on your shirt and untuck it from your skirt, rolling up your sleeves and letting go for a moment, the heels you wear suffocate your feet, so you slip out of them, carrying them back out into the seating area to find Steve. He's sitting in a booth next to the window, glaring sharply at you as you walk over, your food waiting for you.

"You look like a slut."

You laugh, snatching up your milkshake as you sit, sucking the thick liquid through a straw. "No, I look like I'm not stressed out for once." You nod to him him for emphasis, his forehead wrinkled. "You should try it."

He's wearing his suit jacket still, which he quickly shrugs off and places beside him. He rolls up his sleeves as well, plucking a fry from his plate as he alternates sleeves, eyes never leaving you as he copies your current state, reaching up to undo his tie and unbutton the top of his shirt.

"Better?" He sweeps a hand through his hair, reaching for his own shake, and it makes you smile.

The sun hits his face just right, lashes looking elongated against his cheeks each time he blinks, the direct sunlight revealing a hint of green hidden in his eyes.

"Much," You reach for your burger, needing to distract yourself. "Now tell me about this guy."

"Barnes." He says, clearing his throat, talking around a mouth full of chocolate shake. "James Barnes. He's owed two weeks of pay and Stark Industries is refusing to pay it, something about the prosthetic he wears being a violation of his working contract."

"That's bullshit."

"Sure, but Stark has good lawyers." He says, fingers pinching up a bunch of fries. "He'll find a loop hole."

"So what are we going to do?" You ask, juice from your burger coats your fingers, and your chin, hands too full to wipe the mess away.

Steve regards you for a moment, takes you in as the mess you are, and his touch is gentle as he reaches over with a napkin to wipe your face. "You are going to sit in your office and dig up everything you can on Stark Industries and James Barnes. I'm going to do a bit of field work, find out who his lawyers are and how dirty they're willing to play it."

You hum, mouth full. "This is good."

He rolls his eyes, dropping the napkin and going for his own food. "I can tell, you've made a mess of yourself." There's a husk to his voice that's far too suggestive, and you do all you can to ignore it.

A part of you is worried about the case. You're never seen Steve so worked up about one before. Tony Stark is known for burning lawyers to get his way, and he pays much more than the state could ever afford to pay you to take a case. But you're determined to help out as much as you can, the case is a simple one and will go in your favor on it's own, but these kinds of people don't play far, which is why it's important to figure out what tactics they will use in the court room.

You sit there for about an hour, eating until you can't, bickering and tossing an occasional fry to get your point across. All in all Steve Rogers is good company. Some people will never get to know that, his reputation precedes him, scaring away anyone who dares to get close. But you know better. You know that there's some kind of gentleness in his hard glares, you know that he cares even despite the cold tone of his voice, his eyes warm and kind even if his jaw is set in anger.

He cares about you, more than he would ever say out loud, and you're lucky to be good at reading him. You would never know otherwise.

When you get back to the firm, Wanda is where you left her, fresh Subway on the corner of your desk, and Steve grumbles as he makes his way back into his own office, which you glare at him for. She's done a majority of her work, filing, and you feel bad to add another task to her list, but you're on a case after all, and there is urgency.

"Wanda, be a dear on fax me everything we have recorded on Stark Industries." You say, dropping your bag and once again slipping out of your heels. "Check all records, I want everything, no matter how minor."

She nods, tapping the stack of papers in front of her. "What about this?"

You shrug. "It will be there. Save it for tomorrow, you can go home after you do this last thing for me."

You can see the way her eyes light up, and you smile to yourself as she gets up to do as you asked. You settle at your desk and power on your computer, waiting for her to send the information over. In the mean time you straighten up, adding to your pile of items to shred, something else you can have Wanda do tomorrow, collecting spoiled food from the mini fridge in the corner, tossing out piling up take out trash and organizing your desk.

Steve hears the commotion, pulling open the dividing doors between your offices, and pokes his head in. "Sent her home?"

"Soon." You say, "Need me for something?"

"Not really, I just don't care to babysit."

His attitude about your assistant is understandable. Steve works in a particular way, and you've since been accustomed to making things work. Wanda only slows him down. Well, at least that's how he sees it, because she slows you down, which then slows him down. But you were new once too, just as slow an annoying as he finds Wanda, and you understand how it feels to be the new girl. She's young and a bit naive, but helpful, and you won't let Steve Rogers scare her away.

"Stop being rude," You snap. "She's trying, and she hasn't made a single mistake yet." You sigh, exhaustion setting in as you pinch your eyes. "I'm going to pull an all nighter, dig up some dirt for you."

He drums his fingers on the door, pushing it open wider. "I have some dirt to dig up on my own as well. I also need to schedule a meeting with someone, I'll be here a while."

It reminds you of when you were newer, eager to please, you would sprawl out on the floor of his office with your cheap laptop and notepad, the two of you fueled up on garbage coffee and staying up all night to prep for a case. It doesn't feel that way anymore, there is no enthusiasm because there are no risks. Steve is one of the best in the country, he's never lost a case, and you've proven yourself by being at his side for so long. But this is different. You're going up against someone with power, someone loved by the people. The risk is mild, but very much there, and it has you both anxious and on the edge of your seats again.

“I'll fish out my laptop and we can work together?" You offer, unsure of what he'll say. But his subtle nod back into his office is answer enough for you, and you watch as he spins on his heels.

"Dinner is on you."

You huff, rubbing your face, mentally preparing you for the night ahead. "Of course it is."

You send Wanda home, double checking the faxes she's sent up from records, every case Stark Industries has ever had displayed before your eyes, and you tell her to come in as soon as she can tomorrow morning.

You won't be getting any sleep tonight, so you do all you can to make yourself comfortable, fishing a pair of leggings out of the trunk of your car to change into, and ordering takeout for you and Steve to eat while you work. You power up your laptop, pushing your desk through the dividing doors to line with his, working across from each other to put together some counter argument for any bullshit Stark and his people manage to come up with.

The hidden elements you find are shocking, police officers paid to go on trial and lie, lawyers who were burned for trying to go up against Stark, judges fired and discredited for being tipped off, all real cases that the media hasn't covered. Stark has his toes dipped into every industry there is, including the media, any and all press about either him or his company is filtered through his payroll. You greedily take notes, writing down names and dates, and a few details and citations to type up later into official statements.

Steve seems to be having a hard time though, his coffee cup once again empty, his fingers laced together in his hair, eyes staring blankly at the computer screen in front of him. He's trying to get dirt on Stark's lawyers, find out who is working with who, and who he can trust to get information from. But everyone has been sworn to secrecy, tipped off and paid to stay quiet. If Steve dives down the wrong path, it can trigger a chain reaction that will make it's way back to Stark, and all the work done to build a solid case against him will be for nothing.

"Steve?" Your pen taps as you wait for his eyes to meet yours. "Smoke break?"

He nods, rising far too quickly from his seat, and you follow after him, fishing a pack of cigarettes from your purse and a lighter for him.

Smoking isn't something you condone. In fact, you find it disgusting. But the nicotine rush does help you concentrate, it helps him far more than it helps you. The coffee has been enough, especially since you've had three cups of it. But after living this way for so long, after wiring your brain to work under extreme conditions, sometimes it takes the extreme to get the gears turning. For Steve, smoking is considered and extreme.

He takes it from you with a gentle thank you, fingertips brushing yours as you both step out onto the balcony. He lights a cigarette quickly, taking it between his lips, and the way he visibly relaxes scares you a bit.

You can't help it, fingers reaching to grab the collar of his shirt. The moon hits his skin just right, his eyes seeming to twinkle as he glances down at you, cigarette tucked between his fingers as he reaches up to grab your chin, pulling you into a sweet kiss.

He tastes like sugar, his lips warm as they press against your own, and your eyes flutter close at the sensation. It's scandalous, two coworkers sneaking a kiss on the balcony of the law firm they work out, concealed in darkness, but still not safe from the consequences of getting caught. It drives you further, makes you moan in his mouth as his grip adjusts to your throat, holding you in place, drawing it out of you.

Then just like that he's pulling away, forehead wresting against yours as he takes a deep breath to control himself. It's unspoken, but understood. You can't.

"Maybe we should wrap up in a few hours." You suggest, eyeing his wrist watch. "A bit of sleep will do you good."

He snorts, and you have your answer. "Leave if you want."

You both know you won't, so you share a cigarette on the balcony at three in the morning, lips tingling with the ghost feeling of his lips on yours, waiting for the sun to rise and the caffeine to leave your system so that you can refuel.

The smoke break works, Steve is lively as ever for the next couple of hours, putting together his to do list for the day, and you type up your findings for him. When the sun comes up, you go your separate ways. You go home to freshen up, and he heads out on his long trail of hunting. You text Wanda, asking when she'll be able to come in. She tells you that the metro won't be at her stop for a couple of hours, and you offer to pick her up instead. She doesn't refuse.

You shower, change clothes, style your hair, skipping out on breakfast in hopes that Wanda will want to grab something on the way.

The address she gives you is near the college campus, no doubt a dorm she shares with other people. Her hair is a little frizzy, her dress wrinkled, you notice immediately that she hadn't been prepared to come in, but you don't mention it. Instead you ask her where she wants to get breakfast, and in true college kid fashion, "Starbucks" is what she requests.

You both get muffins and coffee, and she thanks you, once again for treating her to a meal. She's starting to warm up to you, smiling more, unafraid to speak her mind. "Can I ask you something?" Her lips are wrapped around the green straw, plush and pink, and you realize how pretty she actually is, even with no effort really put into her appearance today.

"Sure." You shrug, eyes on the road ahead of you as you drive to the law firm.

"Are you and Steve dating?"

The question nearly makes you crash, you sputter for a response, cheeks flushing and breath leaving your lungs. She smiles. "It's just that the way he acts when I'm around-"

"Don't worry about him." You cut her off. "He's just old and cranky."

She smiles, but shakes her head. "I don't mind it, I've had worse. But I've noticed how protective he is over you and over his work. It seems to be the only thing he cares about."

Her words surprise you a bit, because you didn't think about it that way. You saw his mistreatment of her to be simply that, another big guy picking on a little guy. You didn't think for a second that he was just trying to protect you.

"That doesn't make it right." Is all you can say.

"I can handle myself, Y/n." She says, reminding you of a younger version on yourself. "It's the case you're taking on that you need to worry about."

For once, you see Wanda for who she really is. Not a shy timid girl who hides behind good behavior, but a law student, smart and witty, knowing when to hide behind a facade and when to actually speak her mind.

She knows something, if not about the case, then about Steve Rogers, and given the far away look in her eyes, she isn't a girl you should underestimate.

---------------------------------------------------

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[enkelimagnus]

Target

Bucky Barnes Gen, 1989 words, rated M for Hydra shit

Jewish Bucky Barnes, pre TFATWS, post Endgame

Bucky left home thinking today was an okay day. Turns out it's a very very bad day.

TW: Explicit description of a PTSD panic attack, dissociation and a flashback. If this is possibly triggering to you, please proceed carefully

Read on AO3

Part 8 of Making a Home - the Jewish Bucky series

-----------

Bucky hates Target.

To be fair, he hates supermarkets and those sorts of shops in general. They make him uncomfortable. They’re too big and too small at the same time, they are arranged in neat aisles that provide way too much cover for possible assaillants, and they’re noisy.

They’re incredibly noisy, with their fluorescent lights, their fridges that are desperately trying to make the food stay cold, there’s always music and people and the beeping of cash registers, the rolling of shopping cart wheels on the floor, the squeaking of shoes.

The lights are white and too bright, and everything smells too much.

They’re overwhelming to him on the best of days, let alone on bad ones. And he’s terrible at planning his grocery runs, so he regularly ends up without food on a bad day. He manages with take out, but it’s still greatly annoying. On those days, all he wants is to stay home and not have to interact with a single person.

Today’s not a bad day. It’s not a good day either. It’s a medium day, and he’s been watching the entrance for thirty minutes. Humanity’s ultimate soldier and the idea of walking into a Target fills him with so much dread he has half a mind to walk home.

But if he does that, he’s gonna starve until the next shopping trip. That’s not an option.

So he’s stalking the place like it’s the location of his next mission, watching people go in and out, counting the number of them, observing them trying to see if he recognizes any face from the sludge he calls his memories.

They are all regular people, there hasn’t even been a single military-aligned person. He can tell, usually, from the way they move. There hasn’t been anyone he’s pinged as dangerous around since he got here, on the rooftop across from the Target and started watching.

Okay. Perhaps this isn’t just a medium day. He’s being ridiculous.

Sharp wind wraps around him and he can feel himself going a little numb from the cold. A couple walks out holding hands. -2. Someone with short blue hair walks in. +1. Empty bags become full. No full bag is emptied. 21% have given to the person asking for money in the corner. A total of 4 dollars and 78 cents if he’s counting well enough, and he usually is, at this distance. One of the people gave water instead of money.

He could stay here forever, counting people and money and compiling numbers in his head. And he does.

He can barely feel his right hand by the time his phone beeps with a message. He startles, shifting from his rigid position, crouched uncomfortably on the rooftop. His entire body aches with cold and having sustained the same stance for…

It’s dark. Night has fallen. He left his place at 1pm. It’s night. He’s missed hours.

He checks the time on his phone. 7.54pm. He’s missed over 7 hours.

The text is from Sam. ‘Hey man. I’m gonna be in New York next week. What about a beer?’

He doesn’t reply. He never does. Sam doesn’t need him around to fuck up his life further than it’s been fucked since Steve pulled him into this whole shitstorm in 2014. Bucky’s the whole reason Sam’s life has been fucked since the beginning.

He’s too sweet for his own good. That already got him arrested once, got him killed as well. Bucky’s not gonna add to that.

He doesn’t need Bucky and his ‘missing 7 hours because he was watching the Target like a crazy person’.

He slowly uncurls himself from his position. His limbs ache and buzz as he shakes off the numbness. It’s a slow process, and he feels every ache and bee-like sting of it. He’s done this thousands of times, he knows how to bring himself back to peak functionality as quietly as possible.

There are two options offered to him at this moment. Go through with going to Target and getting what he needs or go home and order more takeout.

He’s teetering on the edge of a breakdown, he can feel it. But he’s also still in the sort of state where he’d be able to properly conduct a mission if given the opportunity. He can probably handle Target and make it home before he peaks over. Once he breaks, he’s not going to go outside for a while.

He needs the food.

Target it is.

By the time he’s come to that conclusion, all feeling has come back into the three limbs that are his, and he makes it down the emergency staircase smoothly.

His boots hit the ground quietly. All of the decades of training are in play as he slinks towards the store, a shadow, a ghost. He doesn’t have a cap on and nothing to hide his identity, but he’ll be fast enough and no one will realize what happened. They’ll just think he’s one of the crowd.

The lights are incredibly bright and almost blind him as he walks in. The last hour of his watch has been in relative darkness and the neons assault his eyes right when the music assaults his ears and the smells his nose. It’s a cacophony of sensory messages he struggles to parse so he shuts himself out. His shopping list is memorized.

He knows the layout of the store so he doesn’t double back senselessly, he’s precise and fast. He grabs a bag of dried plums, adding that to the list because he knows he’ll like them when he breaks. Everything is piled in his cart in perfect rows, not a single bit of space wasted.

His footsteps don’t make noise. He doesn’t leave prints behind, thanks to the gloves. He can hear the people around him walking, choosing, listening to music in their headphones. He needs quiet.

It takes him 8 min and 33 seconds before he is at the cash register. He nods at the exhausted girl behind the counter and pays cash, grabbing his bag and leaving the store again.

The air isn’t fresh, it’s polluted and heavy and sharp with cold, but when he inhales, a flood of incomprehensible relief opens.

He doesn’t have long until he’ll break. He needs to be home by then. He starts walking.

Running will put a target on his back, so he just walks briskly, slaloming smoothly between the people who cross his path.

A shoulder bumps into him and it’s a woman, with spidery wrinkles around her eyes and at the corner of her mouth, the thick, brown fur of her coat blending into her brown hair. She has no weapon on her and isn’t trained to kill, he can tell, she’s probably a secretary, in this neighborhood. She offers no possible advantage to his mission. Her eyes are blue as the sky above home in summer and they make him stop breathing for a second. Home. Blue skies, a ferris wheel, hotdogs, a skinny blonde guy by his side, a pretty girl with blonde hair. Words in a tongue he doesn’t recognize, an older woman kissing his forehead and Ma?

“Извините, товарищ!” Sorry, comrade.

Moscow. 1966. Assassination mission, Arkady Shostakov. There are guns hidden under the thick winter coat he wears.

He nods at the woman and keeps walking towards his target.

The house he stops in front of doesn’t look like it belongs in Moscow. It’s a townhouse and it brings phantom feelings of home to him.

His right hand finds its way up the doorpost to the small metal case affixed there. Home.

He made it back. Somehow. He blinks hard. He feels a little light-headed. His breath comes in and out in shallow, quick puffs. He’s not breathing in deeply enough, he’s panicking. He’s breaking.

His flesh hand trembles as he unlocks the three locks of the door and shoves his way inside. They keep trembling as he forces the rising panic to stay away as long as it takes to put the fresh food into the fridge so it won’t spoil on the counter.

His entire body is seizing when he sits down on the floor, back against the wall. His throat is already dry. He should have drunk more.

His chest hurts. There’s something squeezing around his heart, a hand attempting to crush it. He can’t die like that, it’s statistically impossible, but what if it isn’t? What if he’s deteriorating, now that he’s not with Hydra’s techs anymore? What if he’s weaker? He hasn’t been as efficient in the field as he used to be. Maybe he’s just… getting worse.

Maybe they were doing something to keep him alive, and without them, he’s gonna die. It feels like it.

He’s cold and sticky and he wants all of this to stop. It feels like dying. It feels… He’s gonna puke.

He can’t make it to the bathroom, he’s going to make a mess and the whole place is going to smell like misery. He’s useless, he’s dying, the world is ending. Standing back up is difficult. He’s choking on nothing, his lungs won’t expand, his chest hurts . Everything hurts. His ears are ringing worse and worse, he can’t see. He’s shutting down. It’s worse than anything he could imagine.

His right hand shakes so hard it slips on the counter. The left hand… shakes too. His whole body is shaking and he feels vomit rising into his throat. He can’t do anything. He can’t swallow it back down. He has no control anymore. He used to have control but all he can do is throw himself towards the sink.

It burns his mouth when it comes out. He’s crying, he’s shaking, something’s ringing in his ears. He can’t feel his own body. He can feel too much. He hasn’t been drinking or eating enough because quickly, there’s nothing left to puke. But he can’t stop. His body rebels, and heaves out gastric fluids and spit. He feels like his eyes are going to pop out of their sockets with the pressure of the heaving. His body wants to expel something, he can’t tell what.

It lasts forever. He can’t stop. He can’t control. The burn in his mouth is second to the pain in his chest. He’s drowning on air.

Eventually, his body stops trying to puke. He’s left on trembling legs, holding into the counter for dear life. So weak.

He wishes he wasn’t alone. He wishes Steve or his ma would be there to cradle him against their chest and tell him he’s okay. To touch him, reassure him, feed him chocolate or fruits or bread and make him drink a little water. To whisper in his ear that he’s home. He’s safe. He wants to hear his mother’s voice sing him a lullabye like when he was a kid and had a nightmare.

She’s gone. She’s never going to sing him those songs in Yiddish or Romanian again. He’s never going to hear her voice again. He lets go of the counter and lets himself slip to the floor. The tiles are cool against his heated skin. He wishes someone would hold him.

No one’s there. No one’s coming for him.

He doesn’t know when he starts to cry but he realizes he can’t remember what his ma’s voice sounded like. He just remembers she sang and it made everything okay.

He misses her every day. He misses all of them every day.

Steve… He misses Steve most of all. He misses his smile and his bravery and tenacity and everything that made him feel alive when he was around him. He misses knowing he wasn’t alone.

He’s alone now. Steve’s gone. He’s being happy. He’s gone. And Bucky’s still there.

He stays on the floor for hours after that, until he passes out from exhaustion.

Today really wasn’t a medium day.

[themusicplayedherlife]

Belonging

pairing: bucky barnes x reader characters: reader, bucky barnes word count: 2.1k warnings: angst summary: it’s all come to a conclusion, but he’s not willing to let you go that easily

part 1 || part 2

Waking up alone is… strange for a lack of a better word. You had grown so used to a warm body next to you, whether it was at your place or Bucky’s. You’d snuggle into his side, breathing in the smell of subdued roses and coconut—your personal body wash that he loved stealing from you—before he’d wrap you up in his arms and pepper kisses on your neck. Now it’s just an empty, cold spot that you’d roll into and a harsh reminder that to Bucky, you weren’t worth fighting for.

You step into the cafe with a small smile, greeting your best friend, who is already working her magic in the kitchen.

“Sorry, I’m late, Di.” You never had to worry about waking up late or being late because Bucky was your personal alarm. His fingers would ghost over your skin, digging into your bare flesh as he followed every caress with hot, wet kisses.

“Morning, doll,” he’d say as you blink sleepily down at him between your legs, wrecked stormy blue eyes twinkling mischievously as his tongue teased your sensitive nerves.

She looks up from the measuring cups and frowns as you remove your coat and switch it out for an apron. “You know if it were up to me, you’d have the week off.”

You don’t answer her, instead you get started on the bakery’s signature blueberry muffins.

“I thought you didn’t like, blueberries,” you’d tease Bucky, his arms wrapped around you tightly as you fold the berries into the batter slowly.

“If it’s you feeding me, darling.” He’d breathe you in and a small laugh would escape your lips as he nudged his nose against your skin. “I’d eat anything. Even anchovies.”

A gentle call of your name pulls you out of your memories, and without realizing it, all the small berries fall into the batter and splatter all over you and the table. “Fuck!” You’re going to have to start over! “Shit! I’m so sorry—“

“Hey, hey,” Diana starts gently, grabbing your shaking hands and pulling it away from the mess you’ve made. “It’s okay, it’s okay. I’ll do it. Why don’t you get started on the front?”

God you’re such a mess, and you say as much to her with a wobble to your bottom lip and eyes burning with tears you have been refusing to shed. You’ve already cried enough that night, and you really fucking refuse to cry for Bucky again.

She hugs you tightly and you cling to her, heaving as you try to gather yourself back up. You don’t cry for boys like Bucky. You always move on, and move on you will.

Eventually.

Valeria, one of your employees walks in as you accept the tray of baked goods from your best-friend and organize them properly in the glass display. She greets you as she passes by both of you and goes into the back to put away her stuff and to change into her apron.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go home?” Diana asks you again, gentle and kind, speaking to you like a mother would to her scared baby.

You sigh. You already told her that work would be the best distraction. If you can’t bake, you can at least tend the front with Valeria. “I’m sure.”

She rubs your back before nodding. She disappears into the back and then comes back out with more baked goods that need to go on display. 

You spend the next couple of minutes getting the bakery ready for the morning rush.

She slips into the back just as the door opens and you assume it’s Isaac, he usually comes in half an hour after Valeria, anyway, rarely arriving before her. 

Black trousers come into view on the other side of the glass and you frown, wondering why Isaac isn’t just heading straight for the back like he usually does. “What are—“ the question dies in your throat as red rimmed eyes greet you.

You didn’t think you’d see him again and somehow, he still looks beautiful, even with messy, greasy hair and stubble that has become a messy grown beard—all of which is nothing like the Bucky you know. But one thing that is completely him is those eyes full of love and warmth, and remorse.

“Hey, sweetheart.” His voice is ragged and you can’t bring yourself to say anything. No matter how much you want to tell him to get out or how much you want to ask him what he’s doing here, nothing comes out.

You’re trapped.

The stand mixer is on full blast on the other side of the room and Valeria isn’t coming out and somehow you know Diana is behind this. When you told her what happened after waking up and realizing Bucky wasn’t anywhere in your apartment or near your apartment, you called her and she blew up a storm, calling him names and even offering to key his car.

Three days later, and she was no longer talking shit about him, not like you wanted her to, because a part of you will always love him, but that’s not something she would do. After your last break up, even though you were happy to have gotten rid of them, she wouldn’t stop cursing them until you told her that it was getting on your nerves.

“Why?” You somehow manage to push out.

“I’m—I’m so sorry I haven't come around, but I—“

“‘S fine,” you mumble. “We broke up, didn’t we?”

“What?” His eyes widen, and he rounds the counter to stand in front of you, but you back away and he doesn’t attempt to get closer. “No! No, sweetheart, I—I know I messed up, but breaking up isn’t what I want.

“But what if it’s what I want?” your voice wavers and once more you feel that familiar lump in your throat.

His hands fall to his side and those beautiful eyes of his mist over, tears collecting on the corner of his eyes and god you just want to reach over and wipe them away. “You—you don’t mean that!”

“Just like you didn’t mean your words that night?” you whisper, holding out hope that maybe, just maybe your mind had been playing tricks on you.

Guilt flashes in his pretty eyes and he swallows thickly. God. “I—“

A pathetic noise erupts from your throat and you just want to curl up in your bed. “Just what I thought.”

“Baby—“ he reaches for you but you turn your back on him and he sighs, his next words less leveled. “I fucked up. I really fucked up. I will never forgive myself for hurting you.” He takes a shaky breath and you wrap your arms around yourself, ignoring the stinging in your nose. “I was so caught up in nostalgia and Natasha—“ You flinch visibly and a familiar warmth hovers over your back, his voice closer, but a strained whisper. “She’s nothing more than a friend. A sister, I swear. We grew up together, we saw each other through our worst and best, but Nat and I… we just… we never fit, but you—“

“That’s the thing Bucky. You do fit,” you tell him. “You’re both part of the same world and I—I‘m not.” You slowly spin on your heels and Bucky’s clothed chest is right in front of you, your shoes touching his, he’s—he’s too close and when you try to take a step back, the closed counters dig into your backside. Fuck. You face away from him, focusing on the espresso machine and refusing to let him see the tears beginning to form. “I tried to be, I really tried and I would have kept trying, but after that night, seeing you with her seeing how you two just match and the things you said—“ you cut yourself. “I can’t be her.”

Bucky, in a tentative and agonizing pace, takes hold of your upper arms, gingerly brushing his thumb against your skin as soon as they settle. You don’t push him away, you’d be denying if you hadn’t missed him—his touch, even if it lowers your guard just a little. “I don’t want you to be like her or anyone else. I fell in love with you because of the person you are.” His left hand leaves an imprint on your skin as he removes it from your arm, slowly hooking a finger under your chin to make you look up at him. “You’re the most amazing, most loving woman I have ever met and I was a fool to not show you off.”

“I don’t need you to show me off, Bucky.” You finally lock eyes with him, taking in his blotchy face and devastatingly stormy eyes. “I just—I just want you to love me for me.”

“I do—I do love you,” he says, so much conviction in his voice, enough to throw you off balance. “God, do I love you. When you weren’t by my side, I felt such an emptiness within me. Felt so lost. So lost. I kept waking up and searching for you, wanting to feel your fingers in mine,” his right hand travels down the length of your arm and his fingers graze over your palm before slipping between yours. “There’s no one I love or need more than you.”

You whisper at his words, his fingers squeezing gently. “Then why—why did you leave?” you choke, tears streaming down your face. “I looked for you!”

“Oh, baby.” He rushes forward, forward pressing against yours and the finger that had been hooked under your chin works to wipe away tears. “I didn’t want to,” he promises, his own voice heavy. “Would never leave you. Was sleeping in the hallway when I got a call from Becca saying mom collapsed and I—I had to be by her side.  I tried calling you, but you—“

You gasp and you pull out of his hold to instead cup his jaw in your hands. If there’s one person in Bucky’s world that you love and adore more than him, it’s Winnie. She’s been nothing but kind to you since you started dating her son, occasionally visiting the bakery with either Becca or Mary or both just to check up on you, and sometimes even delivers lunch. “Is she—is she okay?”

He sniffles through a small smile. “Yeah, she’s better now.” You release a relieved sigh and are about to drop your hands, but Bucky laying his hands over yours stops you. “Asked about you and called me an idiot after I told her what had happened. Told me to come to you right away, but Becca and Mary—“

“I know,” you whisper. They’re still so young, barely learning to navigate the adult world. They’ve already lost their father, they must’ve been scared to lose their mother too. He had to be there for them, even if your love was breaking, his sisters and mom mean the world to him. It’s part of why you fell in love with him—it’s why you love him. “And your mother was right. You are an idiot.”

“I am,” he says through a wet laugh, and you can’t help but giggle along, saltiness slipping onto your tongue as your tears roll over your lips. “I won’t ever deny that I’m the biggest idiot.”

His eyes shine with tears and sadness and love, so much love; and he just… he just looks so beautiful it’s unfair. It’s unfair the feelings he causes in you: the endless turmoil. You can’t tell what you’re feeling anymore, if it’s love or anger, resentment or pain. 

“I want to forgive you,” you admit in the quiet of the cafe, leaning into him and he immediately understands what you want—his lips attach to your forehead, “but I don’t know if I can—not yet.”

“That’s okay,” he murmurs. “I don’t deserve your forgiveness. I hurt you, I should have been by your side, should’ve told everyone you were my beautiful girlfriend—“

You flinch and the hands that were holding yours drop to wrap around your waist, your own falling to his shoulders. “I don’t want to think or talk about that night anymore, Bucky. I just want you to promise me that something like that won’t ever happen again. Please.”

He inhales softly. “I promise, sweetheart.” He kisses your forehead again, slightly chapped lips trailing kisses down to the corner of your eye. “It’s you. It’s always been you. And it will always be you. I love you.”

“I love you too,” you answer back without hesitation because it’s the truth. It will always be the truth. Even if years down the line you and Bucky aren’t together, you know you’ll always love him. But right now? Right this moment? You belong in his arms and you hope that you always will.

[teamatsumu]

Stable - Chapter 3

Series Summary: Bucky is a shy bookworm. Y/N is an adventurous ER nurse. Two completely different lives, yet they’re coming together perfectly.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader (Bookstore AU)

Word Count: 3,459

Warnings: Smut, NSFW, swearing.

A/N: look at me, fiving yall fluffy chapters. thanks to the phenomenal @chillingbucky for beta’ing this!

Series Masterlist \ Main Masterlist

“No.” “What do you mean no?” “I mean that I’m not jumping off a cliff.” Bucky heard a groan behind him before footsteps stomped over to where he stood. The stones scattered on the ground crunched under Y/N’s feet as she moved closer to the edge, where he was looking down at the water. The sun had just set, so there was still enough light to see the calm of the lake down below. “Bucky, I’ve done this a million times. Everyone in town has does this a million times. I can’t believe you haven’t.”

Bucky was still apprehensive, biting at his bottom lip until it started to sting. “How many books have you read about cliff-diving?” Y/N asked then. Tons. Bucky thought. Too many to count. He knew where she was getting at. She wanted him to experience the real thing. Bucky wasn’t too sure though. It sounded great in writing, but right now his heart was hammering so hard he was surprised it hadn’t jumped out of his chest yet. Bucky fiddled with the sleeve of his hoodie, turning to look at her. She had her arms folded before her, hip jutting out in that usual confident pose she always seemed to have. Bucky admired it, realizing that it was the first thing about her that had intrigued him so much. She didn’t slouch like him, she didn’t curl in on herself to make herself look smaller. “Hey, I’ll go first.” She continued. “I’ll be right there when you jump, princess.” He glared at her, making her giggle. “Did you know that after catching fire, drowning is the most agonizing way to die?” She let out another laugh, rolling her eyes. That was another thing. She never groaned, or got annoyed whenever Bucky blurted out some weird, random fact. Her jacket was coming off now, hitting the ground softly before she tipped off her shoes. She stepped closer to him, leaning up to put her mouth next to his ear. “You’re adorable, you know that?” Her lips were on his cheek then, just a ghost of a touch, before she was pulling away and winking. Bucky felt his face burn hot and he tried not to fidget when a giddy feeling filled him. Y/N didn’t seem to notice, or even if she did she didn’t show it, and took a few steps back. Bucky watched her. The smile on her face was one of anticipation, excitement. She took a running start before launching herself off the cliff, hooting as her body hit the water with a large splash just moments later. Bucky’s chest was heaving, breaths coming fast as if it were him who had jumped. He watched as she surfaced, letting out a shocked cry. “Damn, it’s cold!” She yelled, looking up at him with big, doe eyes. Her hair was plastered to her head, just like the first time he saw her. Bucky felt his lips twitch up into a smile. “What the hell are you waiting for, Barnes? Come on, you promised!” This is a terrible idea, Bucky thought as he slowly shrugged his hoodie off. But damn it if I wouldn’t follow her to the ends of the earth.

It was adventure number 2 - cliff diving. The lake they had arrived at was, thankfully, public property, unlike the printing press from a week ago. As much as Bucky loved spending time with Y/N, he’d rather they not do anything illegal. He shrugged his sweater off, leaving only a flimsy t-shirt. He gently pulled off the necklace hanging around his neck, thumbing at the origami bird before letting it drop on top of his clothing. He took a deep breath, and did allow his brain to think as he launched himself off the jagged edge.

The fall was like a dream. He cut through the air almost in slow motion, breath caught in his throat and eyes squeezed shut. Just as his body was about to hit the surface, all his muscles tensed up.

The water was like a shock on his heated skin. Cold spread through him like pinpricks, eyes shooting open at the sudden sensation. He saw only dark while he was under the water, eyes stinging before his arms and legs finally kicked in, adrenaline forcing him to break the water and push up, gasping for air.

He let out a strangled noise, a few octaves higher as his body tried to get accustomed to the cold. His legs kicked around under him, hands reaching up to push his wet hair from his face. His clothes weighed him down slightly, clinging to his skin. As he blinked furiously, he made out Y/N’s wide grin a few feet from where he was floating.

“Bravo!” She yelled over the sound of his gulping breaths, floating closer to him. “Isn't this fun?”

Bucky gritted his teeth, struggling to choose between folding in on himself to escape the cold or keeping his arms wide to stay afloat.

“Y-yeah.” He squeaked. “So much f…. fun.”

He could hear her laughing, and if his face wasn't frozen, he would have smiled at that. He took some deep breaths, feeling his skin gradually get used to the temperature as he looked around. Gradually, his heart slowed, his limbs softened, allowing him to flap around a bit. He turned to Y/N as she dipped her head back into the water, resurfacing seconds later. The sight of her wet hair seemed oddly familiar, and Bucky smiled as he watched her.

“What?” She asked, wiping the water from her face. Her mascara was running again, and Bucky found her carelessness endearing. He swam a bit towards her, reaching up to let his thumb run under her eye. It served to wipe very little of the product off, but Y/N smiled at the gesture.

“You look exactly like you did when I first saw you.” Bucky stated quietly, smiling. “That first night you barged into the store. Remember?”

She nodded, smile growing wider. “Oh, I remember. I remember this guy in an oversized sweater and these blue, blue eyes, looking like a little puppy.”

Bucky let out a laugh, letting his arm fall back in the water. He pushed himself up a bit so his shoulders were above the surface. He saw Y/N’s eyes snap to his chest. She whistled.

“Damn, Barnes.” Her tone was teasing. “Do you lift books as weights? How is a shy bookworm who barely moves from his cocoon so jacked?”

Bucky blushed, letting out a surprised laugh. He pushed himself back under the water so only his head surfaced, making Y/N frown.

“What did I say about hiding yourself?” She mumbled, swimming closer to him until her face was only inches from his. Bucky felt her leg bump into his where they moved underwater. His breath halted as he watched her, trying to keep still and not sink at the same time. His eyes darted between hers as he slowly rose a bit in the water, his shoulders barely visible. Y/N had to tilt her head up to look at him.

“It's just you and me. Just us.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. Her lips brushed his. Bucky's eyes fluttered shut, and he nudged forward, closing the very little gap still left.

The kiss was slow and chaste, her lips gliding slowly over his. Her mouth nibbled on his as her hand ran over his jaw. Under the water, Bucky gently touched her waist, letting his hand wind around the small of her back. Around them, Bucky could vaguely hear the bubbly movement of water as it swished over their limbs. As her torso touched his, Bucky opened his mouth.

The temperature of the water rose around them as their tongues danced slowly together, noses brushing each other's as their heads tilted. Her tongue was hot and wet as it slid over Bucky's, and he applied more pressure, pulling her tighter to him. His legs still kicked around, though more slowly, only barely keeping them afloat. There was no more hammering of his heart. Despite the fact that his hands shook a little, Bucky felt at peace. He never wanted to stop kissing her.

When she pulled away, Bucky didn't open his eyes, trying to immortalize the moment in his memory. After a few seconds, he heard her giggle, felt her nose nudge at his before the lips pressed to his cheek. Bucky finally looked at her, at her drenched hair, the black streaks across her cheeks, the water trailing down her jaw to drip from her chin. He allowed his hand to trace her cheek, run over her wet hair, tucking it behind her ear. He felt her hand on his shoulder, the other one tracing shapes on the back of his neck.

He smiled.

………………

The pages felt warm and smooth under Bucky’s water wrinkled fingertips. He sighed a bit, leaning his head back against the wall. He was in his cocoon, as Y/N liked to call it. Two blankets cushioned him from the hardwood floor and two more were draped over him. To his side were an assortment of pillows he used when he had to lie down. In front of him was the wooden counter hiding him from the rest of the store and behind him was the wall against which he sat. He tried to read the lines again, only to fail once more. He couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t stop thinking about Y/N, her lips over his, her body pressed to his own, her short, quick breaths that he inhaled. It was all his mind could focus on.

He heard footsteps descending from the stairs on the far side of the store. When he looked up, he saw Y/N emerge from them, rubbing a towel through her hair.

“You live in an apartment right on top of your store but you choose to sit here?” She asked, her bare feet padding over the shiny wooden floor as she walked over to where he sat.

Bucky shrugged, placing a finger between the pages of his book and shutting it. He used his other hand to push the blankets back. Y/N took the invitation to slide down next to him, using his arm as a pillow and pulling the blanket over herself. She was still drying her hair. Bucky could smell the lake water from it, smiling again at the memory.

After their little adventure in the lake, they had walked back to Y/N’s car, shivering and shuddering. She had found some spare clothing to drape over the seats before they sat on them. As Bucky rocked back and forth in the car, trying to get warm, Y/N had raced to the top of the cliff to retrieve their clothes. She slipped the necklace around Bucky’s neck again with a smile before starting the car. They had driven back to the store in comfortable silence, shooting each other giddy smiles every now and then.

“I like it down here, surrounded by books.” He replied to her question, opening the book again. He knew he wouldn’t be able to read a word, not that he had made much progress before. But now, with her warm weight on his arm and her hair against his jaw, it would be impossible.

“You’re reading poetry?” Y/N asked, the incredulity in her tone evident. “I swear, you’re like the perfect nerd. Except nerds aren’t allowed to be this hot.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, even though his heart stuttered and his face burned hot. He didn’t reply. He was awkward with compliments like that.

“Read it to me.” Her voice was softer as she shifted. Bucky lifted the book from his lap and her head replaced it, some dampness of her hair seeping through the blanket so Bucky could feel it on his thighs. He didn’t mind. He gave her a smile and lifted the book to start reading out loud.

“It was many and many a year ago,

In a kingdom by the sea,

That a maiden there lived whom you may know

By the name of Annabel Lee-”

Y/N interrupted him softly.

“And this maiden she lived with no other thought

Than to love and be loved by me.”

Bucky's eyebrows raised as he looked down at her. There was a far away look in her eyes, but it only lasted a split second before she was looking at him again. Her lips nudged up with the smallest of smiles.

“You know Edgar Allan Poe?” He asked.

Y/N nodded a bit, playing with the blanket that covered her. “My sister used to read me his stuff. I was very little and didn’t understand a word of it then, but I do now.”

Something about her tone, about the way her voice trembled a bit, it made Bucky reach down, slowly running a hand over her rapidly drying hair.

“What happened?” He whispered.

Y/N took a breath before speaking. “She died in a car crash when I was seventeen.”

Silence followed the revelation, and Bucky’s hand paused in her hair. He felt his heart squeeze for the girl before him, looking so small under the dim light of the solitary lamp that illuminated the space. He could see the thin film of tears in her eyes.

“That was when my insomnia started.” She continued. “I don’t know how it had anything to do with her, because she never haunted my thoughts, per se. But sleep just wouldn’t come. For days at a time.”

“I’m so sorry.” Bucky whispered, his hand once again moving in her hair. “I didn’t- I can’t imagine how you must have felt. But Y/N-” He took a breath, not knowing how to breach the subject. “You should do something about that insomnia. It’s not healthy.”

She shrugged a bit, as if the urgency in his tone didn’t affect her at all. “It’s fine. It actually works for me. I’m the only person at my job who doesn’t whine about not having enough sleep.”

Bucky huffed, frowning. “How is that a good thing?”

Again, she didn’t seem to register his words. She looked at him and smiled. “Read to me? Please?”

Reluctantly, Bucky gave in, thumbing the book open. His fingers resumed their motions, tracing her hairline, drawing shapes on her forehead as he read:

“I was a child and she was a child,

In this kingdom by the sea;

But we loved with a love that was more than love-

I and my Annabel Lee;

With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven

Coveted her and me.”

Her eyes were closed, a smile playing on her lips. When Bucky finished the stanza, she opened one eye, her smile widening.

“James,” she whispered, “am I your Annabel Lee?”

Bucky’s breath hitched, his fingers moving over her face. He traced her eyelids, making them flutter shut, his fingertips dancing over the bridge of her nose. Her lips parted slightly when he touched them, slowly caressing over her cheeks.

“Yeah.” He mumbled finally, feeling his lips twitch.

She smiled, sitting up from her position and turning to face him. Her eyes ran over his features, darting over his eyes, his lips, before she leaned forward and kissed him softly.

Bucky’s hand came up, cupping the back of her head so she wouldn’t pull away. He realized quickly that she never intended to do so, shifting so she was facing him completely, her body pressing firmly to his. Bucky hands dug into her sides, her leg falling over his lap so she was straddling him. She sighed into his mouth, teeth nibbling softly as his lower lip.

He could feel his body heat further, his hands get more greedy as they ran all over her sides, sliding over her hips, her thighs. Their kisses got more urgent, her nails scratching lightly at his scalp. Bucky tensed at the feeling, not being able to help his sigh. Slowly, he shifted until Y/N was lying down against the pillows, his body enveloping hers.

……………….

You wanted to feel all of him.

His scent floated over you, filling your mind and clouding your heightened senses. The usual clamor in your mind was dulled when he pressed close to you, his hips grinding against your own. You felt yourself heat up even more, mouth dropping open. His face had buried itself in your neck, teeth nibbling at your skin, tongue soothing over the sting of the bites he left behind. You tugged at his shirt and it came gliding off, your torso lifting so yours could be discarded as well. His eyes bore into yours, half lidded and dazed, the blue darkening to a stormy grey. His hair tickled your face, and he ground down against you again. As your eyes fluttered shut and your mouth opened, his lips were on yours again.

It was slow, almost peaceful, the way your bodies moved together, There was no rush, no scrambling movements. Only the desire to feel all of each other. His fingers played with the hem of your jeans, popping the button ever so slowly and sliding them down your legs. He sat back as they came off, throwing them to the side. His hands ran over your calves, laying gentle kisses on your heated skin. You watched him as his lips traveled up, skipping over where you needed him the most and pressing butterfly kisses to your stomach. You felt the twinge of desire in your lower belly, back arching as he moved up to your bare chest.

His hands slid under your arched back, lightly digging into your skin as his lips flitted over your collarbone. Then, he was near you again, his lips were on yours again, and you were sure this was what heaven felt like.

You were proven wrong when he finally slid into you, warm and hard, opening you up so good it made your eyes squeeze shut, your back arch obscenely, your jaw go lax. Your legs twitched, toes curled, nails dug into his skin as he settled in you with a low moan, chest heaving as he stilled. His face nuzzled into your neck as he started moving, slow and steady, hips canting into yours. You matched his movements with yours, letting out small breathy noises and the occasional whine. One of your hands tangled in his hair, fisting at it. Your eyes squeezed shut when you felt your orgasm build, legs wrapping tighter around his. He lifted his head up, eyes boring into yours before his lips pressed to your own. His hand drifted down between your legs.

You came slowly, the pressure building and dissipating in a steady flow that threw you into blind oblivion, eyes rolling up in your head and toes curling. You could feel him still and tense as he followed your orgasm with his own, his name falling from your lips over and over like a mantra. As you floated back down, body twitching and jerking every so often, you felt his lips pressed to your jaw, the weight of his body on your own as his chest heaved.

You could feel his body relax, a comfortable presence over your torso. Your foot caressed his calf, eyes heavy. His head settled on your shoulder and you could hear him whisper your name before he drifted off, leaving you with a smile on your lips.

..............

As always, feedback is appreciated!

[winterromanov]

hold me like a soldier - bucky x reader fic

PART TWO - JAMES

Pairing: bucky barnes x female reader

Excerpt:   “Anyway. I saw you sitting on your own, and I always sit on my own too, and I kind of hate it because this whole grad school thing has reduced my friendship circle to exactly zero, not including my new pot plant Hero, who is great but not very talkative, you know? She doesn’t have many opinions on Tolstoy’s use of the interior monologue in Anna Karenina. And also my roommate spends a lot of time examining corpses in the interest of science, so she’s not the most fun at the moment.”

Warnings: none

Taglist: @lunatictardis @cals-cigarette (reply or send me an ask to be added!)

You were under absolutely no impression that grad school was going to be easy. Yet, that being said, you’d never counted on it being this damn difficult either. Sure, the classes were more intense and more frequent, the deadlines already piling up and ready to leave you shaking like a village in a cyclone—but the classes you could deal with. You’re more than used to homework and Shakespeare is nowhere near as undecipherable as it was in high school, romance and comedy and tragedy now a wholly fluent language in your brain. No, what is difficult is how fucking lonely you are.

You’ve done the whole moving-to-college thing before, but that was back when you were eighteen and naïve and everyone in your dorm was in the same rocking boat, dropped in the middle of a city and on the hunt for (illegal) cheap beer. Now you’re older, arguably wiser and surrounded by hardworking mature students with exceptional career goals. Your roommate, Elise, is almost finished med school and has absolutely no interest in hunting down New York’s best bookstores with you. And the people on your course…they either have friends already, from their undergrad majors, or rush off the minute class is over. It leaves you aimlessly wandering the city on your own or cowered in the library, desperate for any—literally any—company other than your family, fuzzy and lagging over Skype conversations.

School is important. Probably the most important thing in your life, and you’ve worked really fucking hard to get here. But your sanity is important too. Spending another evening with a bottle of budget wine and Friends re-runs on Netflix while pretending to make notes for your medieval lit seminar is definitely not doing it any favours.

So—this is it, you decide. This is the day you bite the bullet. You will no longer be the loneliest girl in New York City, even if that means forcibly pinning someone to the wall of the literature faculty and making them get coffee with you.

(Not that you’d ever have the nerve to do that. Of course. Where does anyone even acquire that sheer level of confidence?)

Your morning starts in a building a fifteen minute walk from your apartment and the October air is unseasonably warm, sweat pooling in the small of your back where your rucksack dips. You make it to Russian lit with a few minutes to spare so you take your usual preferred seat a few rows away from the back of the hall, trailing to the middle. The faces that start to fill up the seats around you are recognisable, at least, but you know very few by name. A girl who is also in your Early Victorian Proto-Feminism class (Tessa, you think) smiles tightly at you, but decides not to sit next to you, preferring a seat nearer the front. As you get your laptop out in preparation for the lecture starting, another face catches your eye.

You don’t know his name, but you always notice him, whether it’s in class or in the library or the canteen near the activity centre. He always dresses smartly but in greys and blacks and blues, like he deliberately tries to evade attention. His dark hair is short but hangs a little in his eye-line, revealing an attractive face with a sharp jawline and sharper eyes. A ghost of facial hair shadows his chin and although you’ve never seen him smile, you can imagine it being the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen. Like the stars back home, the ones unaffected by artificial light, impossibly bright. You don’t get to see the stars like that in New York City. It’s like the skyscrapers have stolen them to burn.

He’s never acknowledged you before. Your stares go unseen, thankfully, because there’s nothing more embarrassing than trying to explain why your eyes refuse to leave somebody’s frame. This time, however—this time, his eyes flicker straight over to you. It’s unmistakable. For a couple of seconds, his blue irises settle on your own, and you snap away quickly as your cheeks flush.

Good one. Real good.

At that moment the professor turns up and starts to load up today’s presentation. When you look back, you can see the back of the guy’s head, a few rows in front of you diagonally across the hall. He’s on the shorter row by the door, only three seats either side of him, but all of them are empty. He doesn’t seem to have many friends either. It doesn’t strike you that there may be a reason for that—maybe he’s just shy, or finds it difficult to find friends, just like you.

(He seems a little older than you, too. There’s just something about his expression, aloof and quiet, that makes you think he carries more years than his face cares to admit.)

The lecture is on Tolstoy and while the professor’s theories on Anna Karenina are interesting, you keep finding yourself glancing at the guy. This is the first time you’ve realised he doesn’t have a laptop, unlike the majority of students in the hall. He’s scribbling notes fervently in a small moleskin notebook, hand covering the side of his face as he writes.

By the time the lecture finishes and you’ve typed a grand total of eight words (the presentation title, go figure) the decision is basically out of your hands. You can’t let him sidle out of the hall like every single Russian lit class before this one, especially if he insists on causing this much distraction to your studies. As the professor finishes up you quickly pack away your laptop, squeezing between the rows in an attempt to reach him before you lose him amongst crowds of other students in the quad outside.

Your gaze follows his scruffy black backpack, standing on your tiptoes as you try to see over the tops of the heads that make their way down the stairs. He presses a white earphone into his ear and between arms, you can see he owns an iPhone, just not a laptop.

For half a second, you falter. Is this weird? Walking up to someone random—well, almost random—after class and just striking up a conversation? Maybe he’s alone because he wants to be, preferring to stalk about without company other than his own. Maybe the seats are empty because he’s completely unapproachable, others before you tried and failing to break into his circle. After all, he’s hardly unattractive. You can’t be the only one feeling subconsciously drawn to him.

Oh, fuck it. Whatever happened to biting the bullet? You remember something your sister mentioned to you in one of your two-hour long Skype marathons—be brave, loser.

You follow him until you’re out of the between-class rush, jogging a little to catch up with his long strides. Taking a deep breath to psych yourself up, you stumble to a halt beside him as he stops to read a message or something on his phone.

“Hey,” you say, a little breathless from your jog, pulling your rucksack straps up your shoulder.

He blinks, a little surprised, like he hadn’t seen you. His hands tighten into fists, then relax. He recognises you. “Hey?”

You smile, hoping to appear approachable, but wondering if it actually comes across as a grimace. “I’m, uh—sorry, we just had Russian lit together?”

His face is totally unreadable, but his body looks tense, putting you on edge. Maybe this was an extremely bad idea. “Yeah. I saw you.”

“Yeah, I saw you too. Well, obviously, otherwise I wouldn’t have…” you realise you’re rambling and to your surprise, there’s a hint of amusement on the guy’s face. It seems to flicker away quickly, like he’s telling himself off for it. “Anyway. I saw you sitting on your own, and I always sit on my own too, and I kind of hate it because this whole grad school thing has reduced my friendship circle to exactly zero, not including my new pot plant Hero, who is great but not very talkative, you know? She doesn’t have many opinions on Tolstoy’s use of the interior monologue in Anna Karenina. And also my roommate spends a lot of time examining corpses in the interest of science, so she’s not the most fun at the moment.”

He listens bemusedly, his hands sinking into the pockets of his trousers. You sigh. Verbal diarrhoea.

“The point being…we could, maybe, sit together?” you offer, hoping you haven’t immediately put him off if he was ever considering what you’re proposing. “Talk about Russian books sometimes so I don’t go mad?”

His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he looks down at his shoes; they’re scuffed up red Converse sneakers, the only part of him in technicolour. You’re almost certain he’s going to turn you down, the sting of rejection premeditated in your stomach, because hell you’ve been in this position before. He’s silent, considering this simple arrangement for longer than you’d anticipated, which is somehow a good and bad sign simultaneously.

“I…” he begins, and you’ve already finished the sentence. I would rather not, thank you. His jaw flexes, hardens. “I can sit with you.”

“Oh!” you say, brightly, by surprise. Nonchalance isn’t an option. Your grin is so damn obvious and you’re not even ashamed of it. “Oh, cool!”

“But—I don’t say this to be…I’ve just got a lot of stuff going on.” He smiles sadly, painfully. This expression is definitely readable. More readable than he wants it to be, you suspect. He dips his head. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Your hand closes round his arm and you can feel it tense, rock hard, and it’s like—like he realises you aren’t a threat, so he relaxes, his expression soft but eager to get away. You smile as a peace offering. “I just thought I’d ask your name. Then I’ll leave you alone. Promise.”

He mulls the question over in his head like he’s attempting a complex math problem, not a daily occurrence. His mouth curves before deciding on his answer. “James.”

“James,” you repeat, trying it out. You give him yours in exchange and he nods once, expression returning to neutral. He turns and makes his way to his next destination, perhaps another class, and before you know it he’s swallowed by college crowds and completely gone from view.

It’s been one of your more…charged interactions on campus, but nevertheless it leaves a warm feeling in your stomach. Sitting with someone is a start. It’s sure as hell better than sitting alone.

[leftenantsparkles]

and we kissed (as though nothing could fall)

Summary : James Barnes went to war. He lived it—survived with all his limbs intact and his heart still beating… But Bucky never came home. [ao3]

Pairing : Bucky x Femme!Reader ; background Bucky x Reader x Steve

Rating & Warnings : Rated M for canon typical violence, fanon typical language, and intrusive thoughts. Buckle up for a little smut, a lot of angst, and some smutty angst. 18+

Notes : This a meditation on grief and memory that I wrote for the incomparable @youngmoneymilla’s 5K challenge. I also wanted to write some Jewish!Bucky, so I’m pretty hyped with how this turned out. I hope you enjoy and a big congratulations to Eliza for this well deserved milestone!!

Prompt : Oh, we can beat them, forever and ever // Then we can be heroes just for one day  Heroes // Gangs of Youth 

Word Count : 7060 

It plays in his head like a night at the pictures back in the day—twenty five cents a head, if you can believe that. The shadow looming inside the ticket booth greedily takes the coin as the door parts moments later.

 He’s not even sure how he finds his seat. All he knows is that he’s out of the cold.

 When the film reel whirs to life, he can’t imagine how he could’ve gotten it more wrong.

 Bucky can feel the biting chill as he watches the Howling Commandos wait for their train, his eyes narrowing on the cable meant to carry them all across.

 “Remember when I made you ride the Cyclone at Coney Island?”

 Steve follows his gaze. “Yeah, and I threw up?”

 “This isn’t payback, is it?”

 “Now why would I do that?”

 Phantom voyeurs jeer in anticipation beside him. All he can do is sit there with them in silent agony, same as he has every other night. He’s locked in the memory… there’s no changing it now.

 You come onto the scene with worry on your brow and a curse under your breath.

 Even exhausted in a war zone, you’re the prettiest thing he’s seen. Your hair is a mess, already spilling out of the pins you’d only just put in that morning.

 “Need some help with that, Agent Sunshine?”

 You look to him, momentarily distracted from your panic. “What’s that?”

 He nods at your hair and you sigh. The ghost of a smile catches as you fish the errant pins out.

 “All this damn hair’s a menace,” you tell him pointedly, handing them over. “You boys are lucky like that.”

 “C’mon on, doll. You an’ I both know if you cut it all off today, you’d be hard pressed to find somethin’ else better to whine about tomorrow.”

 A shrug. “Well you’re not wrong…”

 Turning away from that smug face, you catch a glimpse of Steve and Gabe on the radio sifting through static. Every uttered sound out of that thing put you on edge… It made your skin burn and your throat close up.

 He pulls you from wreckage of your mind, those deft fingers working you over. Teasing you. Healing you.

 “There’s no shame in sittin’ tight, you know.” His voice is low in your ear—his words just for you. “We’ll be quick. In an’ out. You won’t even have time to miss us.”

 He concentrates his efforts on pinning down your locks. The silence is forgiving as he gives you the space you need to collect yourself.

 “Who said anything about missin’ you?”

 His eyes wrinkle a touch as he beams down on you. All the affection and hope someone ought to feel for another person… There was a time you thought you could drown in it.

 This is the last time he would see you alive. He’s watching you like he doesn’t know.

 “I’m serious. Stevie an’ me…”

 He trails off when the warmth of your palm blooms over his cheek. You surprise him, turning before your time with a playful roll of your eyes.

 “You boys ain’t never been quick a day in your life.”

 He leans into your touch, a sharp inhale filling his lungs.

 “Ain’t no shame in it,” you agree with a solemn nod. “But walkin’ away from a fight? Not my style, Sergeant.”

 He holds you there with him for a beat, lacing his fingers with yours.

 He turns your hand in his own and kisses it so tenderly…

 And before he can blink, the moment’s gone.

 Steve’s passing off T-bars to everyone, laying down parameters of the mission.

 “Alright, this is a very short—very fast train. We’ve got a ten second window, tops. Mistime it, you’re a bug on the windshield.”

 Dugan raises his watch and taps the face. “Better move it, bugs.”

 Bucky scratches at the wooden arm on the seat, his shaking fingers begging for purchase as he watches you disappear down the cable after him…

 He watches you board, watches those bastards get the jump on you.

 He’s helpless as a hole is blown out the side of the train. You pull him to safety, shoving him from the danger.

 He watches you fall.

 He watches his lips wrap around your name as he screams for you to come back to him…

 He wakes on his own, throat still aching over forty years later.

On the nights Bucky can’t sleep, he’s in the lab. It beats just laying there. Staring at the ceiling and praying things are gonna be different by the morning doesn’t do it for him anymore.

 He comes here to use his hands—to think. There’s a sterile tranquility when he gets his groove going. So when he’s got some company in there with him, he knows it.

 “What are you doin’ home, kid?”

 “I could ask you the same, you know.”

 The younger Stark pushes off of the door he’s leaning against, coming closer to inspect his Godfather’s handiwork. His voice moves around the lab in what feels like an endless stream of questions.

 Was it another one… How bad was it tonight… Is there anything I can do…

 It’s not right and he knows it’s not fair… but every lingering syllable is an itch under his skin. He just wants to be left to his own devices so he can scratch himself raw.

 Bucky’s eyes narrow on the wire transfer he’s got going on as he tenses over his workspace.

 “Really not a good time, son,” he warns. “I’m sorry… Just not the best for company.”

 Tony sighs, more than a little disappointed. “Whatever you say, Howard.”

 He takes a breath. Bait or no, that shit smarts.

 And the poor kid almost looks guilty. Hopping off the bench, he shuffles out of the lab. Bucky stops him before he can get too far, though. He doesn’t even have to get up to do it.

 “Your old man ever tell you about Azzano?”

 “Azzano…” he echoes. “Italy, right?”

 Bucky nods, attentions back on his project.

 “During the war?” Tony asks tentatively.

 “They ran experiments on me—pumped me full of… fuck if I know, somethin’ else.” He shrugs, “I mean, it sure as shit wasn’t what Erskine had gone and gave Sonny an’ Steve.”

 Tony’s quiet for a beat, brows furrowed trying to make sense of the unfathomable. “Then what happened?”

 “Steve happened. He brought us home.”

 Moments pass in silence. Just a man and his tools clashing with metal, tiny sparks flying contained.

 It’s a good while before either moves to break it.

 “Dad only ever really talks about him when he’s been drinking… Sometimes he’ll namedrop if I’ve been an extra disappointment.” Tony looks down at his shoes, kicking at some lint on the floor. “Then Aunt Peggy’s out because I refuse to make her cry again.”

 “Why not just come to me?” Bucky tries to hide the hurt in his words. “Not enough of a leading expert for you, Mr. Stark?”

 “I don’t know… Deductive reasoning?” he asks rhetorically, almost contrite. “Figured you didn’t want to talk if you can’t even tell me what’s eating you up at night.”

 Shit.

 He puts down his tools and peels his gloves off in an inelegant snap. Bucky gestures for him to sit so he does, scrubbing across his face.

 “You’re not gonna find any of this in the history books, alright? So don’t go runnin’ your mouth to impress some so and so.”

 “Lay it on me,” Tony challenges.

 “What do you want to know?”

 “What happened?” He doesn’t even miss a beat. “Why did he crash the plane?”

 Bucky’s eyes shoot to the ceiling, a little laugh on his breath. Tony frowns.

 “You don’t have to talk if it’s too painful.”

 “No, no. You stop that,” he waves him off. “This is what they call a teachable moment, right?”

 “So what happened?” he says again.

 “When Steve went down… Man alive, Tones. I can tell you, I’ve never been more angry at another living soul.” He scratches at his jaw, shaking his head. “So he’s on the comms, hollerin’ out the words he knows are gonna be his last—some shit, like he didn’t have a choice?”

 He was hurt and tired and so, so furious. He just wanted to take him home and leave the war behind… Maybe take him over his knee for scaring him so bad, but he never got the chance.

 Steve had to play the hero and save everyone.

 —C’mon, Stevie… I just lost my best gal. You really gonna make me go at this all alone over you, too?

 Bucky looks at his hands, hoping for answers—begging for release. These hands of his that could’ve done more for the people he loved.

 “We were partners,” he says, devastated. “If he had a deathwish, he should ah’ told me. But he just—he left before I could have a say… He died alone when I could ah’ been right there with him. How is that right?”

 “No.” His voice is thick and Tony has to shake his head. “It’s not.”

 His gaze returns to the boy, remembering who this was all for.

 “There’s always a choice, Tony. Don’t you forget that.”

  After the war, he doesn’t leave service… Not right away.

 He was tired. He just wanted to go home and see his Ma, have a good cry… But there was still work to be done.

 He toured with the Commandos some, but it was never the same. They knew it. He knew it. But they got the job done—that was all that mattered.

 No one acknowledged that a quarter of their team was missing in action.

 No one breathed a word about their hopes or their fears—all of them united by trauma, but forever alone to it…

 No one talked about the fact that Bucky had barely aged a minute since V-E Day.

 Then came the day they couldn’t hide it anymore. The day the Commandos retired.

 It was at a pub in London that they had their long goodbyes. He remembers the night so vividly, their glasses raised high as they toasted eulogy after eulogy… Didn’t make a lick of difference to anyone how much time had passed. Memories flowed in tandem with the booze in their glasses.

 Time had made superstitious men of them all. They didn’t want to chance bringing anything more than their wrinkles and pains home with them.

 “For Cap… Cap and Sunshine,” Dugan starts off. “For getting all of us sorry bastards into this mess all those fuckin’ years ago.”

 Echoed sentiments erupt across the table.

 “To Cap and Sunshine.”

 And for the first time since you died, he felt like he could breathe… Like he didn’t just dream you up and lose you in the night.

 Steve was real. You were real. He had loved you… You and Steve, Steve and you… Bucky loved you both.

 Sometime’s you gotta take the loss with all that love. And it hurts.

 But he couldn’t bare part with you.

 If his choices were suffering while remembering and moving on without you or Steve, he’d choose you every time. There were times the pain was so bad it was almost blinding. But he needs those reminders. He needs to know that it really happened, that it was real.

 And it was. What you had together was real.

 They all went home to their wives and mothers—shame buried on the other side of the war, heavy embraces slung around the necks of their brothers in arms.

 He went home and kissed his Ma. He had that cry. And for a while, he was done… There’s a part of him that knows it was never going to last.

 Peggy sought him out, offered him a position at the organization she built from the ground up.

 She brought out her sales pitch. She called him James and told him it’s what you would have wanted—but he doesn’t even know if that’s true. You’d been gone so long, the years apart far outweighed your time together. He doesn’t know what you would have wanted.

 He still jumped at the opportunity with such an urgency to leave.

 Before SHIELD came to collect him, he was living in a purgatory of his own making. He couldn’t spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder for the ghosts in his head. Not when his life expectancy was so up in the air.

 With nowhere else to go and no better reason to say no, Bucky paired off with Howard for a minute. He lived in his guest room, worked in his lab… He put as much distance between himself and Brooklyn as he could stomach.

 And it was good for a time. That is, until Howard found himself in the family way.

 It’s an amicable separation. He was even able to maintain lab access with 60% of profits off any future patents. So, you know, not too shabby for a shayna punim from The Borough.

 Between grad school and work, he kept himself fairly busy through the sixties and seventies. By the time the eighties rolled around, the money was so good he got himself a studio in DC so he might live out his sleepless nights in some semblance of comfort…

 They send him where there’s a need for his skill set. He doesn’t go digging. He doesn’t ask questions. Bucky can only keep his head down and pray for world peace when praying for rest might just be too tall of an order.

  The dream starts the same as any other. He pays the toll. He finds his seat. But when the film comes alive, it’s a far cry from the bitter cold of the Alps.

 The scene laid before him is soft and so damn warm… The room is flush with the pastels of a Parisian hotel ravaged by time and circumstance. Building’s probably just as gone as everything else, he expects.

 His breath catches as you slowly fade into view—tangled in silk sheets, limbs akimbo with lips smeared red and bruised by kisses. It’s a sight he thought he’d have to die to see again.

 There’s an old record on in the background. The needle crackles as one song bleeds into the next, but he knows it’s not quite right. You look on with a lazy sort of hunger, almost breaking the fourth wall with him…

 You hum softly as you watch him, watching you.

 Non, rien de rien, non, je ne regrette rien…

 Bucky watches a gentle touch trace the slope of Steve’s nose as he sketches you both on the bed. His fingers. His touch.

 …Ni le bien qu’on m’a fait, ni le mal… Tout ça m’est bien égal…

 Without even thinking, his legs are moving of their own accord. The seat snaps shut behind him as he makes his way towards the screen… He’s all too desperate to bridge the gap that separates you.

 …Non, rien de rien, non, je ne regrette rien…

 He watches himself kiss a trail down the column of your neck, staining your skin something filthy with whatever shade of lipstick he stole from you. When he finally disappears under the blanket, you arch into his touch. Your brows are knit as you palm the sheets in search of purchase.

 …C’est payé, balayé, oublié, je me fous du passé…

 Bucky’s hand spreads against the wall of screen, the fragmented projection washing his skin with yours.

 …Avec mes souvenirs j’ai allumé le feu… Mes chagrins, mes plaisirs…

 He wants more than a wash—what he needs is a damn soak… With all the red on his ledger, he could easily drown himself in the sight of you just to feel clean.

 …Je n’ai plus besoin d’eux… Balayé les amours avec leurs trémolos…

 He rests his head on the wall. His eyes fall shut against the sounds of the three of you together after so long… A merciful lullaby. A soft epilogue.

 …Balayé pour toujours… Je reparts à zéro…

 He wakes mid-flight, somewhere over the Adriatic Sea. The year, 1989.

 You feel closer today than you did yesterday. But there’s a mission on and he can’t afford to think about it just yet.

 If he wavers, he dies.

 He’s been tracking a top ranking assassin for years now with next to no leads. Bucky has yet to see him in the wild. Some dispute their very existence.

 Up until recently, the intelligence community’s been keeping mum on the subject. Months of radio silence.

 It started small, just a murmur at first. Then it picked up traction on the underground servers. Hardly a hit on the guy, but it’s enough to tip SHIELD off.

 His flight’s en route to Berlin. What they’ve got is a source going into witness protection in exchange for information. Simple extraction, in and out. No time to get in his head about this.

 Bucky won’t stop until he’s silenced the fist of HYDRA.

 He digs a carton of Whitehorse and a lighter from his pocket—

 And maybe the thought should scare him… the desire to end a human being. It should bother him.

 —he lights up, really breathes it in. His shoulders drop the slightest amount as he shuts his eyes on the exhale.

 Should.

 The illusive fucker he’s been after might not have been the one to end your life, but they were sure as shit about to return the favor.

 If he dies in the process, that’s just as well. He wants to be with you. With Steve. A good rest never hurt anyone.

 He looks out the window with another drag in his lungs. However the lampshade swings, events are already set in motion. There’s nothing he can do now but wait and see.

  Bucky clocks his witness from outside the restaurant. She sits on a stool at the bar, hunched over her drink as she keeps to herself.

 It’s a slow night, almost dead. There’s no one around to bother her. Still, the girl’s  clever enough to speak out… She’s gotta know there’s a target on her back.

 So he pops his collar and lowers his shades, heading inside. He nods at the bartender, already fixing him up with a shot. Bucky hands him a fist of cash for the drink and his discretion. He’s been with SHIELD for some time now, he’s good people.

 Taking a seat two stools over, he keeps his eyes forward.

 He doesn’t say a word until they’re alone.

 “Wunderbares wetter heute.”

[Wonderful weather today.]

 This is the point where she would give him the go ahead… She’s no spy, but she’s hardly a civilian either. It’s one of the simpler codes on the memory…

 But still, she says nothing.

 “Ich kenne… Es ist nicht so toll,” he offers apologetically. “Das Letzte, was ich tun möchte, ist, deine Muttersprache zu schlachten.”

[I know, it’s not great—the last thing I want to do is butcher your mother tongue.]

 Silence.

 “Wenn es sich nicht um eine Zumutung handelt, ich könnte Englisch sprechen, wenn Sie lieber.”

[If it’s not an imposition, I could speak English if you prefer.]

 Eyes fixed beyond the bar, he makes out a lull of her head from his periphery. It’s the most she’s given him since he sat down.

 Definitely a start towards building trust.

 “I know you’re probably scared,” he says under his breath, lifting the glass to his lips. “Hell. I’ve been there, myself.”

 He downs his drink. Winces a touch.

 “But you work with me here? I swear to you—together? We will work this out.”

 He sets his glass facedown with a firm tap.

 It hits him like a ton of bricks when he spots her virgin shot seated shoulder to shoulder with his own.

 Her glass has been full all along.

 He turns slowly, reluctant to look on the dead woman beside him.

 “Shit,” Bucky sighs. He beats his palm against the top of the bar… “Shit!”

 That’s where her fingers rest, idle as the rest of her. Defensive wounds sheath her knuckles like a pair of lace gloves.

 Bucky runs a hand through his hair, just wanting some goddamn peace for a change.

 “Fuckin’ fuck,” he hisses.

 Her eyes are heavy lidded and locked on nothing. He closes them with a shaking touch, wishing he could have done more for the woman.

 He hangs his head. “I’m so sorry…”

 There’s a moment.

 And then… bam.

 She’s spread across the bar with a bullet in her before he can even think what to do with the body.

 Fuckin’ sniper. 

 He stands at attention. He follows the direction of the shot—past the shattered glass, over the neighboring businesses. Another lands by his feet and this time, he’s prepared.

 He spots the fucker on the roof, reloading their gun. They wisp from one spot to the next, donning a sexless uniform in head to toe black. There’s a silver glint where their other sleeve should be.

 Bucky tucks inside an alley and jumps to the fire escape. Up and up and up, and he’s finally able to make sense of it. He crouches low, watching the figure slip through a door on a rooftop two buildings over.

 He takes off running after them. Screams from below hit his ears as attention draws to the scene he’d just abandoned.

 Once the buildings are cleared, he has to catch his breath before passing through the door—he draws his side piece, swings it open.

 It’s a long hallway with doors lining either side and he has to strain to hear it. Faint sounds in the distance, something metallic… footsteps rushing down stairs, three at a time, maybe four… He finds the door leading to the stairwell and gives into the chase.

 Down, down, down, ‘til he reaches the bottom.

 When he opens the door, he’s met with a gun trained on him and it’s only reflex that has him tossing his gun to disarm them… He’s wanting in time and patience at the moment—ain’t enough going around to spare on a goddamn standoff.

 Bucky pushes his assailant until their back meets the wall with a grunt. They kick his chest, he catches their calf and shoves them a beat harsher than before.

 He moves to rid them of the balaclava masking their identity. But they double down, blocking his arm away in a sweeping motion… knocks their heads heads together, too. But Bucky catches on quick, pulling on a generous amount of exposed hair.

 A whine—sharp and feminine. The sound pierces his ears like a freezing tub of water on a cold winter’s night.

 He uses this window to take the mask. He rips it clean off.

 She turns… His face falls… Time slows—

 “Sunshine?”

 “Who the hell is Sunshine?”

 —and he chokes.

  You raise your metal fist and flex it around the target’s throat, neutralizing the threat.

 “Who the hell is Sunshine?”

 His response is a garbled mess of broken syllables and dangerous looks.

 You back him into the rod at the center of the boiler room you’ve found yourselves in. You could have moved him with your flesh hand with what little resistance he was showing you.

 Fuck it. This intel might just prove to be useful.

 You release your hold on him.

 “Answer me, American,” you order him.

 “American?” He coughs out, touching at his neck. “You were born in Chicago, you big asshole!”

 “I have no business in Chicago.”

 He’s rendered slack against the pole.

 “Fuckin’ A,” he nods in realization. “So I’m gone, too. Is that it?”

 “Don’t make me hurt you, American.”

 His face twists in anguish.

 “My name is James Buchanan Barnes. You know me.”

 You slap him. “No. I don’t.”

 “The fuck did they do to you?” his voice is so small, you wonder if he knows he spoke the words out loud. “Sunshine—”

 —Need some help with that, Agent Sunshine?

 You grimace. “Don’t call me that.”

 “It’s what I’ll call you ‘til the sun goes dim and the sky turns black.” He looks up at you, his eyes defeated. He swallows. “It’s your name.”

 “Stop it,” you warn him.

 When he looks as though he’s about to advance on you, you push him back against the pole. You step away, desperate to put some distance between the two of you.

 “Sonny, please. This isn’t you.”

 Your fist slows his approach, but he just keeps coming for you. You need to shut him up.

 Shutting your ears to the noise, you shake your head. “You don’t know me.”

 “We can beat this.” He grinds his words with mortar and pestle—it’s a desperate plea on his tongue with emotion you don’t give yourself permission to name. “We can beat them.”

 An animalistic scream wretches its way out of you, your eyes hot and itching as you rage at him. You throw yourself onto the target, locking him in place with your thighs.

 You strike him. Again and again and again, until you’re both leveled. And he lets you do it, he lets you hurt him.

 Something twists inside you. He won’t last much more of this. You’re sure he’s thinking the same.

 “Fight back…”

 And still, he refuses you.

 He aches to touch you. That much is obvious. Even as his body bleeds by your hand, it’s all he wants just to have you here with him.

 You don’t understand him, this man at your mercy.

 You don’t even know him… You’re sure it’s only his face you’ve seen before and it’s barely that. His hair is longer than the man from your dreams. He looks battle worn… Lost.

 Nothing like the charming soldier who stole your heart when you had your wits about you… Your head’s pumped full of code and strategy as the serum corrodes your veins, but you know this man. You know his eyes.

 Try as they might, they could never burn them out of you.

 Blood mars his mouth and cheeks as he lies on the ground. He watches you on his back, looking at you like you meant something to him… like you mean everything.

 You find yourself drawn to those pouting lips, wanting nothing more than to abandon the mission and get some answers out of them.

 That’s when you hear it.

 …Quand il me prend dans ses bras… Il me parle tout bas… Je vois la vie en rose…

 Visions of this man invade your senses as music plays from a distant memory, not made for you.

 …Il me dit des mots d’amour… Des mots de tous les jours… Et ça me fait quelque chose…

 His tongue is inside you as another man holds you in check. This man, blond hair with faraway eyes, wipes the sweat from your brow, whispering filthy nothings in your ear. He holds his head against your own as you chase your release.

 …Il est entré dans mon cœur… Une part de bonheur… Dont je connais la cause…

 Your charming soldier emerges from between your legs, so smug. He drags the back of his hand across his face, smearing his stained lips even further.

 …C’est lui pour moi, moi pour lui dans la vie… Il me l’a dit, l’a juré pour la vie…

 You flush as you come back to yourself.

 Is that what these are—

—what they’ve been?

 Overcome, you pull back from the blow… Your metal arm leaves behind a crater in the naked slab of concrete where his head would be if you weren’t so weak.

 Your flesh fingers curl around his bruised face, forcing him to meet your eyes. You narrow your gaze on him, fury and shame building up inside of you. “Stay the fuck out of my head…”

 “Oh, Sonny.” He frowns. “Not me… ‘M not the one in your head.”

 You sink down onto his chest, head resting uncomfortably on his tac vest. Your training takes over when you feel fingers at the small of your back and you’ve got his wrists pinned, seconds later.

 There’s a charged beat between these bodies, the pair of you a panting mess.

 “So what’s it gonna be?”

 Your head tilts to the side in silent curiosity.

 He breathes into his aches and pains and he’s almost smiling at you. “Still wanna kill me, doll?”

 You shut your eyes, worrying at your mouth. You can’t concentrate when you know he is who he says he is.

 “Still weighing my options,” you fire back.

 A pained nod. “How’s it lookin’ on my end?”

 You can’t concentrate when you still don’t know… When you know enough to know his eyes, but can’t place the rest of him.

 You roll your hips over him like it’s an answer… You’ll tell yourself all sorts of lies later about centering yourselfand gaining control of the situation.

 Чушь собачья.

[Bullshit.]

 He betrays the mission, same as you… Betrays his countrymen, same as you.

 But at the end of the day, you’re the one on top of him.

 You work him over because you want to.

 You fuck him because you want to watch him come apart—

—sleep with him because you want to dream…

 And when the night is through, you leave him bloody and broken outside the remote home of a civilian doctor because you’re not ready for this to be over.

  The sounds of a German broadcast tickle his ears as he comes to. Bucky doesn’t open his eyes just yet. It’s all he can do to lie there, focused solely on his breath, repeating his mantra over and over.

 …To die, to sleep—to sleep, perchance to dream, for in this sleep of death what dreams may come…

 He slept like the dead. Nights like these are even worse than the times he’s powerless to save you. A night without you is a day without the sun.

 “I know you’re awake.”

 It’s a voice that puts ice in his veins and a heat in his chest.

 You’re on the chair, sat beside the bed in a flannel top that doesn’t fit you right. Your hair is short—shorter than he’s ever seen it, resting just below your chin. You’ve got a split in your lip and a bruised look in those eyes focused intently on him.

 All this on, and you’re absolutely gorgeous.

 “Last time I saw you, you threatened to cut it all off.”

 Self consciously, your fingers go to your hair. He’s so sore, every move is working against him. His hand meets yours and he’s so, so gentle.

 “It suits you,” he says.

 “I don’t remember,” you admit softly.

 He pulls back with a sigh. “That’s ‘cause it hasn’t happened yet.”

 You watch him, so confused.

 “What are you talking about?” you ask him carefully.

 “This.” He gestures around the room, so tired he lets his eyes fall shut. He scrubs a hand across his face as he struggles to find the words. “The dream.”

 You’re stunned to silence.

 “This is a good one, y’know… Can’t say I’ve had this much free range before. Not this side of the century, at least.”

 “This isn’t a dream.”

 He has to laugh at that. Otherwise he’s gonna make himself sick later with liquor and tears. “Says the spider to the fly…”

 “You think I’m lying,” you say, almost hurt. You know you’ve no rights to his trust. Doesn’t stop those stabbing pains from gutting you from the inside out.

 “Can you tell me I’m asleep right now?”

 You shake your head fiercely. “No.”

 “Then yes.”

 There’s a huff on your breath as you push up from the chair to pace around the room.

 “Unless what you’re saying is true and I’m not sleeping…” he starts.

 “You’re not.”

 His face falls. His head sinks back onto the pillow, resigned as he stares at the ceiling. If this is his Hell, he’s gonna at least make himself nice and comfortable.

 “So I’m dead, then.”

 He wants so badly, so desperately, for this to be real. But if it’s real… that means he’s gotta take it all with him.

 Last night.

 The mission.

 The fucking train.

 If this is real, that means he left you. He left you in the cold, bleeding and dying, waiting for some fucker to pick you up and make you a human weapon.

 He left you when he could have saved you.

 So, yeah… He’s good with being dead for now and it’s a blessing when you don’t argue.

 You’ve got your arm crossed over your chest as you stare out the window. It’s the first time he gives himself permission to look. You’re not wearing it now, but he knows it won’t be long before you put the arm back on. It looked so heavy when he saw it up close—felt heavy when it was beating his face in.

 Bucky has spent so long praying you back to life. He went back to Temple every Friday for you and Steve, both. He said your names. So many times, in so many words…

 But he never wanted this for you.

 “Who was she?”

 The question pulls Bucky from his reverie. Those three little words dry his throat and force him out of the delusion.

 “You called me Sunshine. Who was she?”

 He’s not ready… but Steve would have his hide to make you wait so selfish like this. You’ve suffered enough.

 A number of shaking breaths later and he’s finally talking.

 “I’m a lot older than I look, same as you. I went to war. And Stevie…” God, where to start with Steve. “Well, he wanted it, too. He needed to be with the fight. That I’d ah’ been there with him was a happy accident. Kismet, y’know? The army needed bodies but they just weren’t taking him. And it’s not just that he was small, which he was.”

 Bucky smiles remembering his little love… then he looks at you, remembers that you can’t. And then he wants to cry all over again. He doesn’t. Just a little sniffle and the clear of his throat because this is what you need from him right now.

 “But he had health problems, y’know? Probably would ah’ taken a shorter list to write up what wasn’t wrong with him. So they said no. Figured he’d ah’ been more trouble than he was worth.”

 “Then what happened?”

 “He’s a persistent little shit’s what happened. Got himself in too deep with some government types, and they made him big,” he says like that’s a thing that happens to people. “You were the agent assigned to his case. The SSR gave you the last of the serum before they sent you in to keep tabs on him, paradin’ you around as a USO girl.”

 It’s quiet for a beat. And then you laugh.

 “I can’t even dance,” you simper, more than amused by the idea of yourself in those little outfits singing about freedom.

 “Can’t claim to have seen you in action, doll. ‘M afraid that was before my time.”

 “And when was that?”

 “When Steve saved me. You both had a nasty habit of doing that.”

 You don’t understand his words. Just last night, you were trying to end him… But there’s that name again and curiosity wins out, clawing at your throat like a mad dog for scraps.

 “Is he the other man?” you ask, incredulous. “The man from my dreams?”

 “Depends.” He shrugs on the bed, scratching at the shadow on his jaw. “What sort ah’ dreams you been cookin’ up in that head of yours?”

 You stall, feeling a surge of insecurity. You hate how vulnerable this man makes you feel.

 “Did you ever take me to Paris?”

 Hand in his hair, he looks you over as your face starts to heat. It’s a long while before he speaks. When he does, you almost regret saying anything at all.

 Almost.

 “See, I wasn’t sure last night. But now I know you’re trying to kill me.” He lays his head back on the pillow, spent.

 “What were we?”

 “We were together.” His voice breaks on the word. “We were in love…”

 You shake your head. “That’s not me. I’m not that girl anymore.”

 He frowns, mood effectively sobered for the day.

 “No.” In that moment, he looks so sad for you. “Not anymore.”

 The radio clamors for his attentions again and he nods at the next room over. “They talking about us in there?”

 Your lips twitch as you cross the room. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

 “Seriously,” he presses. “It’s not like we have a mutually exclusive extraction plan here. They gotta have Commie APB after us. Why are we sitting ducks right now?”

 You go to turn up the radio—of course he wouldn’t know, he’s been asleep…

 “The Wall fell last night. No one’s coming.”

 He blinks at you, shocked as you leave. “What?”

 […and therefore we have made the decision today to institute a regulation, which permits every resident of East Germany to depart the country through any border crossing of the GDR…]

 You cross the room to sit next to Bucky on the bed.

 “What will you do?”

 “Do?” You cock a questioning brow in his direction. You’re so wiped you kick your feet up before realizing that puts you fully in bed with him. “I wasn’t aware that anything needed doing.”

 “Can’t imagine your higher ups are gonna be too happy with what happened here,” he points out.

 “Nothing happened. I completed my mission.”

 You say it so cavalier that you can feel him staring at you. Disbelief radiates from his spot on the bed.

 “They’ll never be happy,” you deadpan, slinging an arm across your face. “What they don’t know won’t hurt them.”

 “You sayin’ you’d lie for me?” he asks, unsure.

 “I’d lie for me… There’s a difference.”

 “You do that a lot in your line of work?”

 A knowing smile betrays you. “As much as any other woman today, I’d like to think.”

 “You thinkin’ ah’ going back so soon?”

 Who said anything about missin’ you—

 You lower the arm and crane your neck towards the window. “We’re holed up here until the press dies down. You want to take advantage, be my guest. That’s not my style.”

 —Ain’t no shame in it… but walkin’ away from a fight? Not my style, Sergeant.

 He must hear it, too. You make out the hitch in his breath as he sits, worked up and shaking so bad… You reach out for him, your thumb brushing over the back of his hand.

 “You really don’t remember. Do you.”

 That it’s not a question when he says it breaks your heart.

 “Fragments… Bits and pieces,” you say weakly. “I remember feeling the warmth of two bodies next to me. It helps… It gives me something to hold onto when they try and clear out those defective parts that tell ‘em no.”

 “Ever enough to walk away?” he asks, all too hopeful.

 You look down at the hand wrapped in yours as you burn stars and stripes over his skin with your touch. He already knows your answer.

 He shakes his head into your neck. “I’m so damn sorry.”

 You place a deft kiss onto his shoulder without even thinking. All you want to do is soothe this broken boy… give him anything he wants. Not because he’s asking for it, but that he’s showing it’s possible at all.

 “You could render me unconscious,” you offer. “Just knock me out. Then I’d have no choice in it.”

 “No.”

 “If they see that I’ve openly defected, there’s nothing stopping them from coming after us. We’ll never know peace.”

 “No,” he argues. “There’s always a choice. You’ve had enough ah’ that taken away from you in your time.”

 He puts both hands at either side of your head. You’re eye to eye now, there’s no other option than giving him his say. “If we do this, we accept the consequences…”

 You shut your eyes and think of Paris. You savor it. 

 It’s a good dream, you think to yourself. The best so far…

 “Besides… You asshole’s are always savin’ me. Let me wear the tights for a bit and play hero for a change, yeah?”

 Your stomach burns. Your heart aches. Tears prick at your eyes as you try and picture this life they had, this life of love. It’s a life your very existence spoils like a plate of fresh fruit turned to decay.

 Wasted potential and bygone promises. That’s what his life with you on the run will be. And he’ll do it all.

 He never said it was for you.

 “You must have really loved her… Your Sunshine.”

 He stares at you like he doesn’t know all that you’ve done… As if the only answer to a question never even posed should be so natural, so glaringly obvious.

 “I love you, dummy.”

 Damn him.

 You collapse beside him as much as you can collapse in a bed. You press his forehead into your own, all of the tension leaving your body in one foul swoop.

 You’re left behind a quaking heap of emotion, tears clouding your vision.

 “I’m so tired,” you cry out.

 Those fingers thrum soft against your scalp, his calloused thumbs flexing to dry your cheeks. He drops a kiss on your hairline and holds you close. What remains of the broadcast lingers in the background—the last vestiges of an old world adapting for the new, just like the wavering of a chrysalis ripe for rebirth.

 “Listen to me,” he whispers against your temple. He rakes your hair back as he goes. “Listen. You don’t have to fight anymore. I’m gonna make this right and I’ll spend the rest ah’ forever makin’ it up to you.”

 There’s a beat of silence. His promises should scare you— 

 You look up at him. “Together?”

 “Together… Forever.”

 —but all you can feel is the warmth of his body and the beat of his heart.

 He’s alive. 

 You both are.

 Silence falls around you as your breathing steadies in his arms.

 …I, I will be King… And you, you will be Queen… Though nothing will drive them away… We can be heroes just for one day… We can be us just for one day…

[enneagramspam]

SAMANTHA BARNES

9w8

“I didn’t know what it would be like…. Caring about people. People who are alive. How wonderful and terrifying it all is. I didn’t know that my actions could have consequences because they never did before. Not since…well. I never had an effect on the world around me. And I got used to that. But that hasn’t been true for a while now…” 

Sam is introduced in The Bright Sessions as so deeply disintegrated, she appears very much like a Six- incredibly anxious, obsessed with anticipating and managing possible threats, so desperate to avoid conflicts- internal and external- that she self-isolates to the point that she rarely leaves the house and has no social relationships to speak of. As an unhealthy Nine, she struggles with asserting herself and has difficulties with change that result in an inertia that pervades every aspect of her life, despite, as Dr Bright puts it, a great desire to find “order in the chaos,” and to create lasting peace of mind for herself and her loved ones. While as the series progresses, she goes on to confront her basic fears and move in the direction of her basic desires, proceeding generally towards integration, the stressors she faces contribute to disintegrated behaviour displayed even late into the series. 

Basic Desire: To have inner stability "peace of mind"

“I have an Olympic gold medal in shutting myself off from the world.”

Like many Nines, Sam is often extremely conflict averse. Indeed, she’s introduced as diffident and eager to please;

“I’m Sam, Samantha, my name is Samantha Barnes but you can call me Sam. Or Samantha. Either one is fine, whatever you’re comfortable with. It’s your office.”

Sam’s tendency to self-isolate is not only a result of her fear of loss, but a result of that desire for “peace of mind,”- Sam’s anxiety disorder is severe enough to be triggered by mundane things, and she finds herself “nervous” about day-to-day activities including “grocery shopping,” and “talking to people,”- so she does what so many Nines do, and turns to avoidance as much as possible. For instance, she mentions no longer being able to attend the cinema because the darkness and noise is triggering, and only makes microwave meals in case she time-travels while using the stove and burns her house down. Even her time-travel itself, as much stress as it causes her, is a manifestation of her desire for stability, and dictated by her inner landscape;

Dr Bright: “I think the [time travel is] your body’s way of trying to calm down during a panic attack. When you’re in emotional or physical turmoil, your body transports you to a different place that it deems safe. As if it's choosing flight over fight…”

Sam: “So I’m basically just always trying to find calm.”

It’s important to note that at first, Sam enjoys her “visits,” to different time periods as welcome escapes from the stresses of her everyday life. This atypical coping mechanism is comparable to the fantasies and daydreams real life Nines will often retreat into. 

However, somewhat unusually for a Nine, Sam is well aware of her state of inertia from the start of the story and she repeatedly expresses a desire to break out of it;

“I’m tired of waiting

I’m tired of hiding

I’m tired of wanting,”

Her way of living, fine-tuned as it is to avoid conflict wherever possible, becomes in and of itself a source of internal conflict in an unhappy, self-perpetuating cycle;

“When I [time travel], I’m nowhere. I’m invisible. I’m no one. And it’s not better here [in the present], where I have no life, no friends. I don’t exist anywhere! I’m so scared of everything and I’m starting. To lose. My mind!”

It’s Sam’s desire for genuine internal stability that necessitates that she abandon her dependence on avoidance and self-isolation. Nines are often described as being “asleep,” both to their true nature and the world around them. Apart from comparing living her life to “sleepwalking,” this pervasive numbness is something Sam struggles with- her lifestyle leaves her feeling like “[her] brain [isn’t] being fully used.” While she was aware of it, it took meeting Mark, whom she describes as her “catalyst,” to change her behaviour and mindset.

“Working with Joan, and meeting you, and saving you it- it woke me up. It gave me a purpose…”

“I think somewhere amongst all the tragedy, and the panic, and the loneliness, I forgot how to be a person. Or, at least, the person I can be. And now I feel like I’m waking up for the first time in a decade.”

 It takes a glimpse of that reflection of her self-imprisonment in Mark, confined against his will, (“I know what that’s like - to be trapped like that,”) to prompt the realisation that the only way out is through, and spur her into action in efforts to achieve peace in the long term for the pair of them;

“I’ve spent my whole life afraid, it’s nothing new. I’m not going to walk away. Even before talking to him, I could have never lived with myself if I let someone rot in the past like that. Now that I have talked to him, well, I want to get him out as much as you do.”

Coming to terms with her own agency is a frightening process for her, as she herself admits;

Sam: “Whatever I am, I think what’s important is that I finally have options.” 

Chloe: “And that’s terrifying on its own.”

Sam: “Right. “

Chloe: “But it’s not terrifying in the same way as before.”

Sam: “No.”

It invites conflict in a way that undermines her inner stability, but, crucially, she begins to recognise that standing still has done the same. Compounded with the other stresses she faces throughout the series, Sam is left between a rock and a hard place, due to the conflict that arises when, to achieve her basic desire, she must confront her basic fear;

“I’m- I'm just stuck. But I don’t want to wait anymore. I want to move forward with you but I have no idea how. So I just keep pretending. I keep pretending that I know what I’m doing, that I’m confident in my decisions, that I know how to help…. I’m just- I'm not sure I’ve ever been this lost.”

Basic Fear: Of loss and separation

“I’ve been sleepwalking through my life - just waiting for the other shoe to drop, to get stuck, or to hurt someone again, or for someone to find out about me and lock me up and experiment on me- god, I'm sorry.”

After the loss of her parents, Sam approaches her life in terms of mitigating the risks of potential personal losses. Consumed by this worry, she begins the series afraid to form attachments at all, living in fear of the possible impact of her uncontrollable time-travelling episodes, concerned that they could drive others away or bring harm to them.

Dr. Bright: “And no one has even seen this happen?”

Sam: “Um, I just tend to avoid…um. People.”

As time-travelling causes her to disappear without warning, they are by their nature a sort of forcible, unpredictable separation, and as such, force her to live with the threat of her basic fear constantly;

“I’m terrified all the time. When I’m not actively disappearing I’m worried about disappearing. I’m worried about, about being caught, about hurting someone, about not coming back.”

The death of her parents-  the result of a car accident when she vanishes from the driver’s seat- is what causes Sam’s basic fear to become entangled with her time-travelling to begin with, causing her to live in a state of extreme anxiety, functioning much of the time more like an unhealthy Six than a Nine. Even after her parents’ deaths, much of Sam’s life is dictated by a fear of losing her memories of, and feelings of closeness to, her late parents- a fear, by own admission, of a further loss, despite the fact that she has already “lost,” them in the physical sense;

 “Don’t you get it? I can’t lose them again. I owe it to them to remember.”

Ultimately, this fear leads Sam to shape her life around remaining close to them, which further perpetuates her own isolation;

“I’m just a ghost, haunting this city, moving their things from house to house like some sort of shrine. That’s— I know. I know how bad that is. I’ve been living with the dead for so long - in my house, in the past, in my own head...”

The idea of moving away from the area where they raised her is anxiety-inducing enough to send her into a panic attack. This fear of change pervades other relationships in Sam’s life as well; while visiting Mark, still, trapped in the past, she neglects to tell him that she is working on a solution with his sister ostensibly because of the potential conflict and complications to their relationship that conversation might involve; 

Chloe: “I get it. You don’t want to burst the little bubble you guys are in.”

Sam: “Yeah. I’ve vaguely mentioned that I’m looking into solutions. But I haven’t wanted to make it seem too real, yet. I’ll tell him once we get it all figured out. Once we feel as confident as we can that it’ll work. I just, I don’t want to make promises to him I can’t keep. I don’t think I could stand to disappoint him.”

This is one of the earlier instances of Sam deliberately sweeping problems under the rug to avoid the potential turmoil and loss of relationship conflict, a pattern which continues particularly as her Eight wing starts to become more pronounced.

When Sam does find new relationships, much of her energy becomes invested towards trying to ensure she won’t lose the comfort they introduce to her life and the people she cares for- her relationship with Mark is arguably largely defined by her desire not to lose him; 

“I’m scared for you. I just want to keep you safe.”

Her nightmares reflect these fears- in Episode 50: Rose, she has a dream during which she- quite literally- loses Mark in their new home, and suffers a panic attack upon being unable to find him and she goes on to express a belief that losing him is in fact, an inevitability;

“He’s just like everyone else,

He’ll soon be in your past,” 

Though he makes her “want to believe,” she describes this as a “want to be foolish”- her experiences have led her to believe the idea of keeping Mark is an unattainable dream- more of an expectation than a fear. The dread that comes with this supposed inevitably remains intense late into the series, and contributes to the breakdown of their relationship;

 “I love you and it’s…it's like having a stomach ache all the time. And I keep doing things to try and make it less painful and none of it works. Because you’re you and I’m me and our lives are just filled with uncertainty and danger.”

The potential loss is all she can focus on- to the point that she loses the peace and stability being with Mark previously brought her- being in love with him is “a stomach ache,”- in this state of disintegration, Sam’s basic fears are so overpowering that her basic desires are completely out of her reach. To avoid this situation precisely, Sam, who understands that life is inherently rife with both internal and external conflict, tries to acknowledge and accept her fears;

“Dr. Bright and I have spent a lot of time talking about acceptance. She’s told me that, even if I do get my ability totally under control, I might still have the occasional panic attack and leave without meaning to. And that I should try to accept that. Life is going to be stressful. Bad things are going to happen. It’s about how you respond that matters and that’s- that's what I’m trying to figure out.”

But this still isn’t something she has fully come to terms with by the end of The Bright Sessions, leading her to make mistakes in her desperation to control her circumstances and hold onto that which she fears to lose.

Disintegration to Six:

“It’s about survival, Sam // Never let down your guard,”

As aforementioned, Sam spends much of her life seriously disintegrated, and isolating herself out of fear. Dr. Bright describes the Sam she first meets as “malleable and desperate,” lacking “trust in herself,”- the caricature of an unhealthy Six. Gripped by an anxiety disorder, threat-obsessed, and in dire need of support, latching onto Dr. Bright even as she maintains a deep suspicion of her, Sam has all the hallmarks. Beginning to establish supportive relationships, her anxious tendencies do lessen a bit- but they are so familiar and habitual to her that she practically defines herself by them. It even becomes something of a running joke between her and Mark;

“You know, you can take the cape off for a day, Anxiety Girl. The world is not going to crumble around you ... No, no, it’s alright. You’re always preparing for the worst, I get it.”

 Her desire to protect is something that ties into her Eight wing (see below) but her constant vigilance and her distrust towards authorities such as the A.M. which underpin this desire are an unsurprising symptom of her disintegration, as is the ‘us vs. them,’ viewpoint and perception of constant danger- though, admittedly, it’s somewhat justified given her circumstances.

Sam: “You’re asking me to retreat. I’ve done that too many times before—”

Mark: “Retreat? It's not a war, Sam—”

Sam: “It kind of is. And I have a family to protect—”

Integration to Three: 

“I do want to do something with my life. Something productive, worthwhile.”

During The Bright Sessions, Sam doesn’t have much opportunity to demonstrate how she would look when integrated. By the end of the series, she still reacts with knee-jerk worry in the face of potential conflict; 

Dr. Bright: “Is that a slight against my scotch supply?”

Sam: “No, no, god— I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-”  

But by no means is she quite as averse to it as she was to begin with; 

Sam: “You’re teasing me, aren’t you?”

Sam begins to show tendencies of the healthy Three, becoming more self-developing and energetic, when she finds a project- namely, the improvement of the A.M.- to which she can lend her expertise and strengths. Early in the series, she describes herself as being tired of adventures- but newly ambitious, she begins to take a different tune;

 Dr. Bright: “Do you think you’re ready? For another new adventure?”

Sam: “Yeah, I think I am.”

  w8:

“Imagine what I could do if I was trying, if I had full control.” 

At the start of the series, Sam feels completely out of control, like any unhealthy Eight- she views herself as at the mercy of her time travel and her anxiety disorder. In this desperate situation, her self-isolation is an effort at maintaining control in the only way that she believes she can. Dr. Bright recognises this desire for control, and appeals to it when trying to convince her to harness her powers.

“You can learn to control it.” 

And as the series draws on, Sam becomes very occupied the idea (“I want to take control,”) and her Eight-wing becomes more and more apparent. When she gains some control over her ability, she soon becomes frustrated that she can’t have complete control over it- this is something she has to “try to accept.” This desire for perfect control after dealing with a complete lack of it for years might seem counterintuitive, or even ungrateful, but it demonstrates the importance of control as a motivator for Sam, and more critically, her fundamental discomfort confronting a lack of it. 

Like many Nines, Sam is initially out of touch with her anger, to the point that it’s something she jokes about;

“I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. Well, you know, if I had enemies, that is.”

But when given proper incentive, she begins to exhibit the “intense eruption[s] of anger,” common to Nines who typically default to repressing it, and especially to Nines with an Eight wing- as when she punches Damien after he abducts Mark, surprising herself and those around her. In comparison with Nines, Eights are typically far more familiar with their tempers, and nothing is as likely to provoke them as the feeling that they (or their loved ones) are being manipulated or controlled against their will. Sam repeatedly lashes out in reaction to precisely this fear- early on in the series when she feels “manipulated,” by Dr. Bright, for example, and towards anyone who contributed to confining or controlling Mark (Dr. Bright again during Zero Hour, and Agent Green when he starts to “check up on” her.) 

Also like a typical Eight, Sam shows repeated reluctance when it comes to expressing vulnerability- she has issues talking openly with Mark and while she initially describes his respect for her privacy to Chloe as one of the reasons why she likes him, her self-described habit of “keeping [him] at arm’s length,” becomes a problem when they enter a genuine relationship, contributing to the communication issues between the pair of them; 

“I love you so much. Do you know that? No, I mean, how could you, it’s not like I’ve ever told you.”

More importantly, Sam’s desire and subsequent efforts to maintain control over her newly dangerous environment eventually lead her to go, in her own words, “full tilt control freak.” Enneagram Institute describes this as a need “to keep the environment, and especially other people, from hurting them and those they care about,” all the while cloaked “in a layer of emotional armor.” Sam likens herself repeatedly to Mark’s “knight in shining armor,”- at first seemingly jokingly, but it’s a role she takes to heart- usually revisited when she perceives that she has failed to keep him safe- and eventually she extends the metaphor to include “dragon[s]”- the potential dangers posed by the various people threatening Mark’s safety;

Mark: “You were still my knight in shining armor. You saved me from the dragon.”

Sam: “But what if there are other dragons? I don’t know how to fight every kind of dragon, you know? If I don’t know what kind of fire they breathe or how resistant you are to that fire—”

Mark: “This metaphor is getting away from you, babe—”

Sam: “I need to know how to keep you safe. And I don’t want to do anything that makes you uncomfortable - I know there are things that you don’t want to talk about and I respect that but-”

It’s the unfortunate combination of her desire to maintain control as a result of her Eight wing, and her tendencies away from interpersonal conflict and vulnerability as a Nine with an Eight wing specifically, that lead her to violate Mark’s privacy in the manner that she does- time travelling into the past to observe his personal traumas at the AM and contacting Damien, both without his consent or knowledge, rather than confronting him directly. She does come to realise that she’s becoming an embodiment of exactly that which she fears, undermining the autonomy of those she loves, and hurting them in the process;

Sam: “This isn’t— I’m not this person. I don’t want to be this person.”

Damien: “And what person is that?”

Sam: “The kind that tries to make decisions for other people. I can’t do this.”

Returning, even, to the armor metaphor, realising at last the fundamental flaw in her approach;

“I’ve just been grasping at anything that I could use as armor even if it meant leaving somebody else defenseless.”

“I don’t want to lose him but, even more than that, I don’t want to hurt him.”

What this fear of and desire for control betrays is an unusually well developed Eight-wing, most likely forged in the crucible of what Dr. Bright describes as “loss, and wars, and repeated physical traumas in the form of time manipulation,”- the absence of safety that builds an Eight. It is this same set of experiences and traits that lends Sam genuine strength and willpower that allows her to lead and effectively protect her loved ones in better circumstances. In Safe House, her efforts to take charge of the situation offers a glimpse of her potential, and by the time The AM Archives takes place, she is able to call upon her assertiveness in times of crisis, encouraging Mags and keeping mostly collected in the face of extreme danger. But throughout most of The Bright Sessions itself, Sam’s Eight wing generally manifests in ways that ultimately cause damage to her relationship with herself and those around her. 

[lilhemmo]

Anger Born of Worry + Almost Kiss + sweeneyxlaura (madwife)

send me two au’s from THIS list + a ship/character

a/n: this anon told me to sub madwife for buckynat!

It’s been too long since they’ve had a mission scare, so of course they were due for one anytime soon. Natasha should’ve seen this coming.

And still, as her hands push down on his wound to try and staunch the bleeding, she can’t help it as tears spill over her eyelids and onto her cheeks. They cut paths through the dirt caked on her skin, dripping onto his coat.

Snow surrounds them, and for once she’s not glad that they’re alone. Bucky is a quiet man, and she’s usually thankful for the silence, but now with him bleeding out in her arms, she suddenly wishes they had backup on this mission.

The crimson liquid bleeds from between her fingers, billowing out and coating everything it touches. She’s screaming into her comms unit, praying to whoever is listening to just let us make it, please, but she’s not sure anyone will answer her.

It’s cold but she’s ignoring the bone-chilling air that is biting at her. Her tears freeze on her jaw as the stench of dead bodies begins to fill her nose. She’d been sure to kill every last one of them before she crumpled on the ground next to him.

“James,” she whispers, barely loud enough for him to hear over his own wheezing. “You bastard.”

He coughs out a laugh and his eyes roll in the back of his head, “Nat, calm down. Just a scratch.”

Natasha wants to slap him but she can’t for fear of what may happen when she withdraws her hand from his wound. Instead she glares at him furiously, unsure and uncaring as to whether or not he sees her.

Somehow, somewhere, someone is listening and there is air transport landing kilometers away from them. People come spilling out of the helicopter to strap James Barnes to a stretcher and hook him up to all sorts of liquids.

Natasha is scraping her way through the men, pushing them aside to stay within a five-foot radius of his makeshift hospital bed. Eventually, James waves his metallic arm to tell her to stand down.

“It’s okay, Nat,” he wheezes the words with a smirk on his face.

She manages a snarl, “You better not die on me, Barnes.”

“Too scared to see what you’d do to me if I did.”

And with that, the helicopter blades begin to whir and her partner is taken away from her yet again.

Natasha knows what it feels like to be trapped.

She remembers the Red Room and all the horrors that ensued. There is a certain chill that settles in her spine when she thinks about what she had to do to survive before she really knew any better.

Worry sits thick in her throat the longer the hours draw out. She licks her lips into a chapped oblivion and drinks enough coffee to fuel a train from coast to coast. Her feet are rubbed raw from pacing, both with shoes and without. She can’t bear to sit still.

Bucky’s eyes peel open and he sees a flurry of red hair pacing in the front of his bed. His monitor beeps and she turns her head, so he takes the opportunity, “You look like shit, Nat.”

That was a mistake.

“Are you kidding me?!” she stomps towards him and threatens to yank his pain killer out. Her lower lip doesn’t tremble, per say, but she doesn’t necessarily look ready for interrogation.

“I’m fine,” he groans in an attempt to sit up. “It’s just a flesh wound, I told you.”

Her throat bobs as she crosses her arms over her chest. Natasha’s eyes are dark with something Bucky has never seen before. He sits up straighter, ignoring the pain in his ribs, “Nat? Hey, what’s wrong?”

“You almost died!” she shouts, throwing her hands in the air.

A single tear topples over her eyelid and drips down her cheek. She is quick to catch it with her thumb. She stuffs her hands back under her armpits as she picks up her pacing once more.

Natasha shakes her head, “You can’t just die, okay?”

“Okay,” Bucky holds his hands up in surrender. “It won’t happen again.”

She rolls her lips together and glares down at him. He’s never seen another woman so short be so intimidating. Her small hands grip her biceps and he’s worried about the damage she may do to herself.

“You can’t make promises like that,” she swallows again. Natasha licks her lips, “I can’t have a partner that does stupid stuff like that, James! You can’t just go running in without looking over your shoulder. I can’t put my life in your hands if you’re going to be so careless with it.”

“Remind me of who is sitting in a hospital bed?” he asks incredulously.

Natasha has the desire to reach across the distance between them and land a hard slap to his cheek, but she is relying on what she learned in the Red Room - violence - and she won’t continue to use their practices as a crutch.

“Nat,” Bucky sits up further and fights off the impulse to grab her by the elbow, “I would never put your life in danger, okay? I’m sorry if you feel like you can’t trust me, but I need you to know I would never let anyone hurt you.”

Her heart softens and tears threaten her eyes again. She blinks them away and sits down in the chair for the first time in 72 hours.

“This isn’t about me putting your life in danger, is it?” Bucky asks intuitively. He laughs through his nose and reaches to her with his flesh hand, touching her forearm. “You’re projecting.”

“Of course I’m projecting, you idiot,” she says softly, tired of arguing. Just tired.

She looks up at him with tears in her eyes, vulnerable in a way a Black Widow should never be, “I’m so sorry, James. I didn’t have your back.”

“Nat, don’t do that,” he pushes her hair out of her face and wonders if she’s even gone home since he fell in the snow. His hand accidentally cradles her cheek for a moment too long, but when she leans into it he does not fight it.

“I can’t help it,” Natasha whispers. She licks her lips and tilts her head up to him, “You could’ve died. That would’ve been on me.”

Bucky shakes his head and brushes his thumb over her cheek, “You underestimate me, Natasha.”

Her forehead falls to his and the tension grows, silence sprouting something stronger. He knows if he moves in just the slightest, her pouted lips will be within a millimeter of his own.

“I can’t lose you,” she whispers, her breath ghosting over his mouth. Her chin trembles and he forces his body to allow him to cradle her jaw with both hands, metal and flesh, despite the screaming pain in his torso.

“I couldn’t leave you,” he admits. His heart sits heavy in his chest and he can’t fight the burning in his heart any longer. Bucky leans up and their cupid’s bows touch just as the doctor pushes open the door.

“All right, Mr. Barnes, let’s get you checked out.”

Natasha falls away from him quickly, but reaches for his hand. She smiles up at him with a new glint in her eyes, “Yes, doctor, when can he be discharged?”

Bucky shakes his head, snorting, “Not quick enough.”

a/n: wow that was longer than i anticipated!!! hopefully you guys like it and i did buckynat justice!!!

[littleshebear]

Destiny fanfic; Unbreakable

My writing muse totally deserted me for a bit there because I was having trouble with this piece but I finally got it done. I feel cleansed. Maybe I can get to writing other stuff now too. I’m back on my Steelponcho bullshit. 

Zavala x Hawthorne | Pre-relationship | The Red War | The Farm | Suraya Hawthorne has had a no good, bad, horrible day | Alcohol | Chekhov’s Poncho

Hawthorne left the triage station in a hurry with the metallic tang of blood in her nostrils. She resisted the urge to run, there was enough fear and misery to go around without the refugees seeing her like that.

She reached her quarters and slammed the door. She stripped off, pausing for a moment when she realised her poncho was torn at the sleeve; one of the injured had grabbed on to her and refused to let go until he had finally passed out. She decided she'd clean it up and patch it later, she was too tired and heartsick to bother mending it tonight. She tossed it aside and headed for a tiny shower room which was cordoned off by a ragged curtain. She turned on the water, the pipes shuddering and groaning in protest before a weak spray of water emerged. She gasped as the freezing water hit her skin. She forced a slow breath from her lungs, making herself adjust to the cold. The water gradually became a bearable lukewarm and she relaxed. She had bathed in far colder during her time in the wilds, this was comparative luxury.

She pressed her palms and forehead against the stall’s tiles and she closed her eyes, replaying the evening’s events. How she had sat by the radio, waiting in vain for her scouting party to report in, how she had removed herself to a viewpoint above the Farm to watch for their return. How she had to swallow down panic when she saw what was left of them being brought in on sparrows, by Guardians who had obviously intercepted their cries for help, cries that had been dampened from wider broadcast by the Cabal.

She opened her eyes and watched the water swirl around the plughole at her feet, gradually turning from pink to clear as the last of her colleague’s blood was rinsed from her body. She gave in to the tears that had been threatening since she’d seen her friends, her charges, laid out on those operating tables, bleeding their last. She had hoped it was safe in here, that the water could disguise her weeping but the angry, frustrated tears ran far hotter than the shower.

After drying off and getting into some clean clothes, she scrubbed the bloodstains out of her poncho as best she could then made her way to the firepit on the edge of the farm. She spread out her poncho to dry, wrapped herself up in a blanket and set to drinking a jar of bathtub gin. The denizens of the farm all had the good sense to give her a wide berth. All but one.

She knew it was him without looking around. Dev knew to leave her alone, Cayde would have led with a well-meaning but misplaced quip and Ikora would have got straight to the point. The hovering at a distance and the polite throat clearing could only mean him.

‘What do you want, Zavala?” She asked before taking a swig of the burning liquor.

‘We have some information on the arm of the Red Legion that attacked your people. I thought you might be interested.’

Hawthorne took a deep breath and tightened the blanket around herself. ‘Go on.’

He approached slowly and spoke in a gentle tone of voice that dripped with sympathy. It made her grind her teeth. There was no need for this sort of kid gloves treatment, she wasn’t that delicate.

‘The description your scouts gave before they…” He paused.

‘Before they died,” Hawthorne filled in for him.

Zavala sighed and closed the remaining gap between them. ‘May I sit?’

‘It’s a free farm,’ she grumbled. ‘I’m not stopping you.’ The alcohol was most definitely having an effect. What was left of her sobriety knew it was unfair to speak to him so harshly. None of this was his fault but she was angry and he was there. The increasingly intoxicated part of her justified it by saying he should have known to leave her alone.

“The descriptions your scouts gave match reports we’ve been getting about a Red Legion general who calls himself Thumos The Unbroken.”

‘The Unbroken?’ She snorted derisively. ‘Someone’s got an ego. What do the reports say?’

‘He’s one of Ghaul’s blood guard, high ranking, ruthless.’ He paused, looking between Hawthorne and the jar of moonshine in her hand. ‘That’s the gist of the communications we intercepted.’

‘What do they say?’ Hawthorne fixed him with an icy stare.

‘I’m not sure the details are-’

‘Tell me.’

‘Hawthorne, please don’t take this the wrong way but how much have you had to dr-’

‘Don’t coddle me, Commander!’

Zavala sighed deeply. ‘As best Cryptarchs can translate from the transmissions we discovered? He heralds his arrival with something like this: Hail Thumos, you who are fated to fall.’ He paused before finishing his report. ‘And then there’s just screaming.’

Hawthorne nodded, chewing on the inside of her cheek, trying to ignore the lump in her throat that was making itself known again. She kept nodding, as if that would stave off any need to address the other physical reactions that what she was feeling right now. ‘I see.’ She took another quaff of her drink. If any more tears appeared she could blame them on how strong the booze was. ‘Is there anything else you needed, Commander?’

‘I just wanted to make sure you were all right.’

‘Oh yeah, i’m fine,’ she replied, her lips curling into a snarl, ‘An entire scout team is dead because of me but yeah,’ raised her glass to him in a mock toast, ‘I’m just dandy, thanks for asking.’

‘This wasn't your fault.’ He held her gaze for an uncomfortable beat.

‘I gave the order, I sent them out there,’ she grumbled, turning away to stare at the fire again. ‘Let me guess,’ she snapped, ‘You’d have done things differently? Did you come here to impart your wisdom, tell me what I did wrong?’

‘No,’ he replied, sounding a little taken aback. ‘No, not at all.’ She shot him a baleful look and he shrugged, ‘I…’ He hesitated, ‘In actual fact I’m impressed by you. I’ve nothing but admiration for what you’ve achieved here.’

‘People died because of me,’ she said before turning away again. ‘I don’t expect you do understand. You’re a -’

‘A Guardian?’ He interjected.

‘Don’t pretend you know what’s like, because you don’t! Dying over and over but coming back every time isn’t the -'

‘That’s not true.’

‘Dying over and over but still coming back isn’t the same as-’

‘It’s not true.’ Zavala didn’t shout but there was something in his voice that overruled her desire to interrupt him again. ‘Are you a student of history, Hawthorne?’ He asked after a tense silence.

‘No,’ she shrugged, ‘I didn’t pay much attention at school.’

‘Look up the Great Disaster, when you have time. The Battle of Mare Imbrium.’ There was no acrimony in his voice, just regret. ‘We lost hundreds in that one sortie. I know what it’s like to lose people, I know what it’s like to lose them on my order, believe me.’ he looked on her not with anger but compassion. ‘That’s command, Hawthorne. You make judgement calls. The ones that go well, you never think about but the ones that don’t work out…’

‘How do you deal with it?’ She whispered.

‘Try to learn from it. That’s all you can do. You did the best you could, there’s no point in punishing yourself. It changes nothing.’ Hawthorne looked at her feet. ‘But you will, I’m guessing. It’s what I always do,’ he said after a brief pause, that normally sonorous voice of his coming out as little more than a defeated rumble. ‘That’s command for you. When you start to stop caring that’s probably when you should step down.’

Hawthorne looked up at him with bleary eyes and felt her lips twitch into a faint smile for the first time that day. “Sucks, right?”

Zavala didn’t smile in return but he nodded. “It surely does.” He gingerly rested his fingertips on her wrist and said, ‘Do me a favour and don’t drink any more? It’s not a healthy way of dealing with this.’

‘You’re not the boss of me,’ she protested, pulling her hand away from his, sloshing some of the liquor over herself in the process.

‘Hawthorne, please.’

‘Fine,’ she acquiesced but held back from giving him the glass. ‘On one condition.’ She stared him down, holding the jar between them. ‘You have a drink with me. Then I’ll stop.’

He rolled his eyes and took the glass from her. ‘One shot. And then that’s it.’ He tipped the jar up delicately, as though it were a crystal champagne flute rather than a scuffed old jam jar. ‘To absent friends.’ He took a drink and screwed his eyes shut, before swallowing hard. He coughed and spluttered. ‘Well. That’s certainly. Something.’

‘Good huh? We make it out back,’ she gestured toward the barn.

‘I’d have more but my ghost is significantly weakened. I fear if I went blind, she wouldn’t be able to heal me.’

‘Wuss,’ she sniggered. ‘Okay…’ She got to her feet, swaying a little as the full effect of the drink hit her. She got a corner of the blanket caught under her feet and staggered backward right into Zavala.

‘Easy,’ he intoned, gently grasping her upper arms and righting her. He rucked the blanket up around her shoulders to keep it away from the ground.

‘M’poncho,’ she looked around, knowing she’d left it somewhere nearby to dry but couldn’t quite remember where.

‘I have it,’ Zavala reassured her. She stumbled along beside him, gripping on to his arm for support.

She couldn’t remember much about their trek across the farm, she didn’t remember anything about how she got back to her room and into bed. She woke the next morning with a bone dry mouth and what she could swear was a Cabal drill pounding inside her head. She sat up, waited for the dizziness to abate and reached out for her shoes and poncho with shaking hands. Her poncho. She stared at it in confusion for a few moments. It was clean, sitting neatly folded on a table beside her bed. She picked it up to see the tear had been expertly sewn up. If she didn’t already know it had been there, she probably never would have noticed any evidence of a rip.

When she finally ventured outside, she made a beeline for the command centre in the barn. Zavala looked up from his maps and reports when he heard her approach.

‘How are you feeling?’ He asked, glancing at the bottle of water she had clenched in her hands. She was grateful for him keeping his voice down, anything louder than a whisper would have set that Cabal mining crew in her skull off again.

‘Been better,’ she whispered. ‘Listen,’ she glanced around to ensure they had a modicum of privacy before speaking in a stilted, staccato manner. ‘Sorry. About last night. Had no cause to talk to you like that.’ She flicked her gaze up at him then immediately away again. ‘Sorry.’

‘It’s quite all right,’ Zavala replied in that low baritone that Hawthorne’s delicate senses suddenly found soothing. ‘You’d had a bad day. Happens to the best of us.’

‘Did you,’ she hesitated, her confused and alcohol impaired brain feeling the need to make two attempts at the question. ‘Did you mend my poncho?’

‘Yes, I did, I noticed it was ripped,’ he answered simply.

Hawthorne raised her eyebrows and felt laughter bubbling up. “You...embroider? You?”

Zavala didn’t smile but there was unmistakable amusement in his eyes. “Crochet is more my speed but I have a basic understanding of needlepoint.”

‘Oh. Okay.’ She scrambled through her addled memories trying to piece together what happened after they left the fireside. Since seeing him again this morning, a dim memory of him helping her take her shoes off and getting her into bed began to coalesce. She stared at him, suddenly remembering how he tucked the covers around her but more than that she remembered what he said to her before leaving her to sleep, that’s one thing she remembered so clearly.

‘He’s Thumos the Unbroken. Not Thumos the Unbreakable. We’ll get him, I promise.’

Zavala frowned at her. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Yeah!’ She replied a little too quickly. ‘Just zoned out for a second.’ She gave a brief, self deprecating laugh. ‘Hungover. I’ll be fine. See you around. Thanks for…’ She tugged the sleeve of her poncho.

‘Don’t mention it.’

‘I’ll see you later,’ she mumbled, turning away and heading for the steps that lead to Louis’ perch. She told herself that the dizzy, off-kilter sensation she felt every time she thought of his words to her was just the hangover, nothing more.

[emmy-lou-badoo]

The Little Angel

Sonny side

Ariel had been working to find her fellow angels, but in her off time she would visit the Winchesters, she found hunting interesting and wanted to know more.

This was one of those times, she had popped in just as the Winchester were headed off on a case. It was at a boys home that Dean was in for a bit as a teen.

The impala pulls into the driveway of the large old victorian home, nestled deep in the country.

Ariel climbs out with her usual smile on her face, Sam and Dean were talking about how Dean never told Sam he was in a boys home. The three walk up to the door, Dean taking the lead as he knows the place, and knocking.

A woman answers the door, she's in a blue dress with a cross necklace hanging down on her breast.

“What can I do for you boys?” She asks folding her arms.

“Hey, I’m Dean, this is my brother Sam and this is our friend Ariel” Dean tells her, “were old buddies of Sonny’s”

“Prison buddies?” The woman asks.

Dean coughs and shakes his head, “you mind telling him we are here”.

“I’ll go get him” She nods us in. She stops and points at our shoes, “I just mopped”

Ariel smiles and kicks off her boots, the brother doing the same.

“So Sonny’s an ex con?” Sam pipes up as they remove their footwear.

“What and we’re such angels?” Dean fires back.

Ariel quirks her brow at the statement and Dean remembers there is an actual angel right beside him. He smiles nervously and holds the door open for her.

They walk in and to their right is a living room, Dean seemed to stare at the room with a fond look. Ariel grinned lopsided, knowing he must be recalling memories from when he was here.  

A man with a kind smile and handlebar mustache walks out from an adjoining room to the living room.

“Hey, D-dog” He grinned, Dean sharing the happy expression, embracing the man in a hug.

Sonny releases Dean and sees Sam first Ariel finding herself hidden next to Dean now, “you must be Sam” Sonny shakes his hand.

“Good to meet you” Sam greets

“Back at ya brother” Sonny smiles, then turns back to Dean, seeing the girl who is now visible, “this your wife?” Sonny asks Dean.

Who’s jaw goes slack and looks to Ariel, loss for words, “oh um ha, no don’t got one of those this..this is Ariel...my-Our friend, friend of ours”.

Sonny eyes the boy, biting back a smirk.

“Well in any case, it is a pleasure to meet you Ariel” Sonny gently shakes her hand.

“So” Dean cuts off still feeling the tension that Sonny created when he thought Ariel was Dean’s wife, “the farm looks good”.

“Please man it's barely standing” Sonny shakes his head, “only got a hand full of kids working here now”.

“Why’s that?” Ariel asks genuinely.

“Cause nowadays they would rather incarcerate a boy then redeem him” Sonny explains.

Sam crosses his arms, “Sonny, do you mind if we talk alone” he speaks lowly as the woman who answered the door is just in the other room.

Sonny nods, “Hey Ruth would you please go check on the boys?” Sonny asks her.

She nods and leaves, looking the guests over once more.

“Alright, so what’s happening?” Dean asks getting down to the real business”.

“Well” Sonny begins, “you remember Jack don’t ya?”

Dean nods, “ya, tough old leather neck”.

“Ya” Sonny confirms, “well somehow that rusty old broken down tractor roared to life and ran him over the other night”.

“Maybe it slipped out of park or something?” Sam asked trying to go the rational route first.

Sonny shook his head right away, “couldn’t have” he blows out air, “I never believed any of this stuff you boys are into, but something ain’t right”.

“What you mean” Sam asks again.

“Well, things just..started happening, lights flickering, strange scratching sounds coming from inside the walls, windows and doors slamming” Sonny lists off.

Dean nods, “alright, can you round up the boys well we take a look around”

“Should be no problem” Sonny agrees, going off to do just that.

Dean pauses, “why don’t you take the house, i’ll check out the barn” Dean tells Sammy, leaving Ariel without a job.

“Dean” She says, catching his attention before he gets to the door, “should I go with one of you?”

Dean stutters as he thinks, but Sam speaks first.

“Why don’t you go with Dean, Barn’s bigger than the house”, Sam nods her off towards Dean. Who may or may not still be caught up on the fact that Sonny thought Ariel was his wife. I mean Sam was there too, Ariel could have been Sam’s wife, hell Sonny could have though she was a sister, why did he go for she was Dean’s wife.

Ariel and Dean walk out to the barn in silence, Ariel happy to learn more about hunting, content following Dean and helping when asked or needed.

The barn is dark when Dean pushes open the door, enclosing them in the darkness by shutting the door behind them. The tractor the ran over Jack was right near the doors, chains and other equipment hanging on walls and from the ceiling.

Dean pulls and EMF reader from his coat pocket, as soon as it’s on it lights up.

Ariel ‘hmms’, “let’s hope it’s feeling friendly..and not in a killing mood” she speaks staring at the lit up metor.

Dean looks at her from the corner of his eye, eyebrow raised then turns back looking into the depths of the barn, “where the hell are ya Casper”.

He stuffs the EMF reader back in his jacket and beings walking further into the barn, Ariel confidently hot on his trail.

Only a few steps in and the duo hear a sound. They share a look, neither being able to figure out what it is at first, but as they take a few more steps they identify it as crying.

“Hello” Dean calls out sternly when they reach the back part of the barn.

Ariel swats his arm and Dean jumps unsure why. He sees her looking at a light bulb that's hanging down, swinging. She looks at him and walks over to it, grabbing it and stilling it.

“Hello?” Ariel calls out again, voice softer than Dean’s, the crying sounds like a child, but it could very well be a ghost child.

“Anybody here?” Dean calls after, voice rough, especially in comparison to hers.

They hear and feel the shift in air like something is behind them. Dean and Ariel turn in sync, and standing behind them is a little boy with glasses.

Dean seems tense by the sudden appearance but Ariel smiles widely and kindly.

“Hey kid what are you doing here by yourself?” Dean asks him, suspiciously.

“Fighting monsters” The boy speaks up.

Ariel pulls her lips in tight line, hiding a smile, looking at Dean, cause that is exactly why they are there.

“What kind of monsters?” Dean asks.

“All sorts” The boy holds up the actions figure in his hand, “with Bruce the monster smasher”.

Dean lets out a quick, ‘hmm’ and loosens up, it’s just a kid, “is that a cape?”.

Dean questions, adding on, “that’s a little impractical for smashing monsters”.

The little boy presses a button on the action figure and the doll speaks in a electronic tough voice, “I clobber evil”.

Dean and Ariel chuckle at it, then pause.

“I’m Dean” Dean introduces himself, sticking out his hand for the kid to shake. The kid looks nervous, shrinking away, but shakes Dean’s hand nonetheless, but only holding onto Dean’s fingers.

“Timmy” he tells Dean and Ariel.

Ariel finds herself smiling at the interaction, she loves children.

Dean sucks in a breath, bending down closer to Timmy, “let’s try that again”, he squats down, “your gonna be a man, your gonna learn to shake like a man”.

Dean sticks his hand out again, “so, give me your best kung fu grip”.

Timmy takes Dean’s hand, properly this time.

“Good” Dean encourages, “now look me in the eye,  show me you mean business ,and shake as hard as you can”

Timmy does so.

“That’s it” Dean congratulates the boy.

Timmy then looks to Ariel, who he has not met yet.

She squats down beside Dean, “Hello Timmy, my name is Ariel”.

Timmy shakes her hand just like Dean told him too.

“Wow that’s some grip there” she comments on his strength, even though he didn’t actually hurt her, he couldn’t.

“Ya don’t have to be so firm when you meet a lady, but that’s a lesson for another day” Dean adds, mouth turned up in a little lopsided smile.

“Hey, Timmy did you know Jack? he worked here” Ariel asks.

Timmy nods.

“What can you tell us about him?” Dean prompts Timmy.

“He yelled a lot” Timmy tells them, “he was yelling when he had his accident.

“Timmy, were you here when Jack had his accident?” Ariel asks concerned.

“Me and the other boys were playing here when it happened” Timmy says.

“Did you see anything?” Dean asks intrigued if he might have seen the monster they were looking for.

Timmy stays quiet but shakes his head no.

“Is there anything else about that night, anything at all” Dean asks nonchalantly.

Timmy thinks, “it suddenly got cold”

Dean nods licking his lips, thinking about the case, when Timmy speaks again.

“Can I go? I have to finish my chores before Miss Ruth gets mad”

Dean and Ariel let out a similar breathy laugh.

“Well then you better run along, thank you Timmy” Ariel smiles, te boy running off.

Dean and Ariel finish up looking around the barn, but find nothing. They walk out and halfway to the house Ariel stops in her tracks. Dean has to back track,

“What? What’s going on?” Dean asks

“Angel radio,I have to go, some of my siblings need help” Ariel says barely even looking at Dean. She touches his arm and looks at him just before she flutters off, “i’ll be back, I promise”.

Dean is left standing in the yard alone, he blinks a few times, “well ok then”.

Sam got a lead from Ruth that lead him to believe it was a man named Howard, so of course Sam and Dean went and burned the bones that night and headed out the next morning, but it was not over.

The brothers were stopped at a diner, sitting at a table. Dean was trying to check out an old fling when Ariel popped in right beside him.

He jolted, menu falling onto the table. Ariel looked confused at the brothers.

“Why are you here?”

Sam and Dean looked at each other.

“Because the case is closed…” Sam told her.

“No it’s not” Ariel shook her head, “they still need you, Ruth died” Ariel told them causing both brothers to wash over with panic.

“What are you talking about Ariel?” Dean questions, forgetting about the old fling for now.

Before Ariel could tell them about it Dean’s phone rang, it was Sonny. Dean looked at the concerned angel as he answered the phone, and as Sonny told him what she did.

They leave the diner without food and went back to Sonny’s. The cops were just leaving as the impala pulled in. They talked to Sonny and he said he tried to get in but the door wouldn’t open….there are no locks on the doors.

Sam went to look at paperwork, while Dean and Ariel went to talk with the boys.

As Dean and Ariel round the side of the house to the back they find the two older boys cornering Timmy, picking on him.

Dean rushes forward pulling the boys back, “hey HEy, come here, what’s going on?”

“Nothing” one of the older boys try and defend, but Dean doesn't listen.

“What’s going on here Timmy?” Dean asks the little boy.

Timmy doesn't answer, just looks at the ground. Ariel frowns and walks over resting an arm over his shoulder to comfort him.

Dean is very upset, turning back to the older boys, “where were you two this morning when Ruth had her accident?”

“Unless your a cop we don’t need to tell you anything” The tallest boy speaks.

“Oh well ok” Dean fishes in his jean pocket and produces his FBI badge, sticking into the boys faces for them to see, “how about that?”.

The boys cockyness dwindles and the taller one speaks again, “we weren’t even here this morning, Sonny sent us into town to get some chicken feed, I swear”.

Ariel is still protively beside Timmy, as Dean continues to speak with the boys.

“What can you tell me about Ruth?” He asks.

“We call her the warden” the other boys spoke up, “she was a real bible humping hardass”.

“Obviously, what else?” Dean tries to get something useful, “anything different or weird?”

“You mean besides Timmy” The tall one speaks looking over Dean’s shoulder.

Ariel hold Timmy tighter and glares at the boys, reminding herself they are kids she shouldn’t punish them on a smite level.

“Hey!” Dean speaks up, stopping their immature laughter, “either of you touch him again

Ever again, i’m gonna go all guantanamo on you” He looks then dead in the eye, “understand me? Get the hell out of here”.

The older boys run off and Dean turns to Timmy.

“Hey” Dean speaks softer to Timmy. Timmy walks towards Dean, who hands him his Bruce action figure back.

“Listen to me, guys like that they’re cowards, all ya gotta do is stand up to them one time and they stop” Dean tells the young boy.

“Ok” Timmy acknowledges quietly.

Timmy went inside after that, the older boys having started their chores.

Ariel hears the screams and runs, well she may have teleported but she got there before Dean nonetheless.

One of the older boys got his hand nearly cut off by the lawn mower. She was one move away from just healing him, but Dean stopped her.

She sighed and helped the boy the more human way. Wrapping his hand up and waiting for paramedics to come get him.

After the commotion was dealt with Dean and Ariel went inside to see Sam, who was still looking through records.

“That kid was bullying Timmy before the accident right?” Sam asks.

Dean and Ariel nod, both with hard faces.

“Listen to this” Sam hands Dean Timmy’s file, Ariel peaks over his shoulder to glance at it, “Timmy was found in an abandoned building, a year ago by himself, no idea how long he had been there”

“What about his parents?” Ariel asks, there is no way his parents just left a kid like Timmy.

“Posted a picture on the internet, noone showed up”

Dean pulls a face, confused, “then shouldn’t he be in an orphanage?”

“He kept running away” Sam explains.

“Probably ghost possession” Sam throws out a theory.

“So what we shove salt down the kid’s throat?” Dean fires back, “we keep looking,you’re taking the barn this time” Dean points at Sam leaving the room.

Ariel shrugs at the youngest Winchester, lips in a line and she turns out of the room.

Ariel and Dean find themselves downstairs when it starts to get worse.

Timmy appears suddenly, just like in the barn.

“Sorry, I can’t stop it” Then the front door slams and things begin to fly around the room.

“Go go” Dean pushes Ariel towards the other room as plates and other objects fly into walls around them.

They make it to the kitchen and Sam walks in the backdoor but before Sam even realizes the door he just used to enter closes and won’t open.

Dean goes to the cupboards looking for salt, throwing it to Sam.

Timmy comes into the kitchen, looking sad that this is happening, and that is when he tells them. That there was a car accident and his mom saved him from the burning car.

He found his way through the woods to the abandoned building and he cried for his mom, and she came.

Dean figured out that the ghost of Timmy’s mom was attached to the action figure Timmy had. Timmy’s mom tried her best to keep them from getting the doll, fighting them off. But it wasn’t the doll it was Timmy, she was attached to Timmy. The only way to get her to stop was the same way his mom started, but Timmy telling her.

Timmy was the one that got rid of the ghost and saved the farm from anymore accidents.

It was another good case ended, more people saved.

--------------

Masterlist

--------------

[not-sebastian-stan]

Bucky Barnes Imagine- Pinned against the wall

A/N: I’m feeling like angst lately so this came. HOPE YOU LIKE PAIN!

WARNINGS: Angst, blood, some more angst, tears, broken hearts, fucking hydra, death.

Screams bounce around the tower. Heart tearing, pain bringing, with grief-filled screams, mixed with sobs. Everyone tries to block out the sound, but they can’t. You can’t just simply block out a sound that is caused by such an immense pain. A pain that won’t make you numb, no it’s passed that. It doesn’t come in waves but in tsunamis. It won’t leave survivors. It leaves corpses. And frankly enough, that was you. Pinned against the wall. The wall. The wall with an enormous picture of you and the team printed on it. Your body was stick to it with knifes while your blood was pooling underneath you. Your once white shirt was now an awful red colour. Your head resting against the wall, letting your sliced open neck on full display. 

And, beneath you, a screaming Bucky. His knees were shaking so much that he fell to the ground. His eyes are puffy and almost as red as your shirt is. His hands clutch onto what you had dropped onto the ground, an ultrasound. Showing a little baby in your stomach. Well, now it was laying on the ground. ‘Cause whoever that asshole was that killed you, thought that it would be fun to cut your stomach open. Steve lays a hand on Bucky’s shaking body. His tears falling on his friend's shirt. “ Bucky, “ he says, not getting a response from his friend. “ It’s not your- “. 

Bucky cuts him off. “ Fault?! “ he yells back, voice broken and cracked upon recognition. He slowly turns his head to his friend. Steve’s heart only breaks more at the sight of his broken friend. “ How can this not be my fault! They have written my fucking name on the wall in her blood! “ he screams while pointing at the words written on the wall. “ How can it not be my fucking fault that my wife is pinned to a wall with her stomach open Steve?! How the fuck can’t it be! “. Steve shakes his head while his bottom lip starts to quiver. “ I’m sorry “ he whispers. Bucky stands up, quickly feeling how weak his legs are. But he won’t fall, not now. He takes a look at your body, well, he tries to look. But only the mere sight of your lifeless eyes leave him screaming. So he does the thing he can do the best, run away.

His finger press the play button on the tv. The security footage of your shared Bucky’s apartment is visible on the screen. He smiles sadly when he sees you walking in via the front door, putting your groceries on the floor.

You let the paper bag filled with mostly junk food fall onto the floor. You lock the front door as you kick your shoes off. Bucky always told you to not lock the doors in your apartment, but it just feels safer. You grab the bag again and cary it to the kitchen. You start to put the groceries away. You stop when you hear the curtain move behind you. You quickly turn around. Your hand grabs a knife off the counter and you slowly make your way over to the curtains. You can see the curtain still moving. Wow, wooooow. This is how everyone dies in horror movies, you know? You quickly hush your thoughts. You will not get killed, you have a knife. You pull the curtain open, only to see no one there but an open window. Of course, it’s the window, you left it open because you burned your scrambled eggs earlier and wanted to get the smoke smell out of the house quickly. You sigh at your own axiousness. 

You close the window and walk over to the groceries. Only to see that they have disapeard. You swallow thickly. Are you being anxious again? No, someone has to be in your home. You grip the knife in your hand thighter, looking around you for someone. “ Bucky? Bucky?! Are you there honey? “. You turn around again. A man with the hydra logo tatooed on his neck is standing there, holding the ultrasound you took this morning at the docters. “ Well, well well. The asset got himself a baby momma. “ he says with a smirk that makes you sick in your stomach. “ I am not just a baby momma. “ you say throught you theeth, afraid that you might throw up if you open your mouth. “ Such as shame, “ he says as his hand grabs your neck. You scratch his arm but it doesn’t affect him. What an asshole.

“ But our asset can’t have a family. “. His words spit into you like poison. So, you returned the favour and spit in his face. “ You don’t get to choose that for him! “ you yell. He tightens his grip on your neck. You immediately feel a lack of oxygen in your body. You hand grabs his wrist in an attempt to free your self, but it has no use. Your bottom lip starts to quiver as that thought runs through your head. This is it, this is the end. You close your eyes as a burning hot tears roll over your cheek, feeling like someone dripped some lava on you. 

You hear the man chuckle again and open your eyes, even that simple act leaves you tired. As if you had just ran a marathon. You try to gasp for air, but none comes into your lungs. You have one more minute, tops. Tony taught you that, you can still hear his voice saying it in your head. " Two minutes with some kicking, but one minute with hard fighting. ". At least a minute has passed since he wrapped his hand around your neck. " You are really going to spend your last moments alive crying? I thought that the asset would have chosen a stronger mate. ". His voice, what the fuck is so wrong about his voice? It sounds like a swallowed a box of nails and then tried to talk. That is also how your throat feels right now. But he has one point, you're not going to spend your last moments alive crying. Bucky wouldn't like that.

Oh god, Bucky. How you wish he was here. To hold you and tell you it was going to be okay. You can almost feel his arms wrapping around you, dragging you with him to the darkness. To a cold, scary darkness. You scream for Bucky to let you go, something you would normally never do. Yet he doesn't let go. Or maybe he does. The feeling of his arms around you fades. Every feeling fades. It's like you had just fallen in ice water. It swallows you and leaves you numb. This is death.

Bucky quickly turns of the tape when he sees your lifeless body falling onto the ground. At least you weren’t pinned to the wall alive. Yet that probably would be less painful than the never-ending ache in his heart. He wanted to break down again but he had to stay strong. Maybe you were right about the whole ‘coming-back-as-a-ghost-thing’. And he would hate for you to see him like this. “ I’m sorry..... “. It comes out broken, hurt. His voice laced with sadness, grieve and a sprinkle of anger. For him to lose you was the final drop in and a bucket of pain. It would hurt anyone to lose their wife, best friend and lifelong companion. But for Bucky, it felt like his heart has just been ripped out of his body, squeezed, stepped on, burned and then put back in him. And that was an understatement. “ Why did you lock the god damn door? “.

Permanent taglist: @thecrazyoneshavetakenover

[deathnoting]

abecedarian (6/26)

some more wammy’s gen 1 nonsense :~)

previous parts: a b c d e

f. fire (c. 1989)

—

This is a game: B picks the lock on the door, or climbs in through the window, or prowls in the shadows of the attic staircase until L emerges to accommodate some unavoidable bodily need, and then he goes into the room and he hides. The closet is roomy and the soft cotton of the shirts that hang or lie in crumpled piles makes him feel swaddled. In there he becomes a smaller child with fewer manias. Beneath the desk is cozy and rank, and within the stifling bulk of the curtains is an opportunity for inciting ghoulish phenomena, but B’s favorite spot will always be under the bed. The sound of L breathing above him makes it easier for him to sleep. The sound of L asking, with long-suffering exhaustion, for him to, “Please, just get out,” makes him feel present on the earth, unable to suddenly lose sync with the planet’s orbit and float away.

L will drag him out by his hair. L will shove a hand over his mouth and wrestle him across the floorboards, trying to avoid a scene but making one anyway, clattering at the apex of the west wing so that anyone asleep below them will not be asleep much longer. L will sometimes just ignore him, hold his eyes closed, kick away his creeping fingertips with the resigned inattention of someone batting away a fly, and do his best to sleep. If he manages to, B will crawl out and stare at his face, the downward slope of his nose, the distinct bulge of his eyes, jut of his chin. B will think of how to reform his features into those features. He will think of how to make one thing from two. L will breath quietly for him, and he will breathe for L.

He doesn’t wonder why L doesn’t tell Q or R about this game. He doesn’t wonder about anything L does, he just accepts it as a facet of reality as immovable as the names that are stuck to souls like fly-paper, and the deaths that are stuck to those names.

L Lawliet is going to die in sixteen years. Beyond Birthday is going to die (?) in — years.

He leaves that space blank. He has nothing to put there.

—

L goes to and returns from Bangalore.

B wakes him on his first night back, just after one AM, while the dark is still beginning to open. The mice are seeking answers and the owls are giving them. He takes L’s hand in his and squeezes until he is batted off, then squeezes again. Half-asleep, L is unstudied and strangely sweet, hair especially clumped, drooling onto his pillow. He looks like a child instead of an independent investigative entity. He looks like he could snap in half. B grabs him by his nose and plugs his nostrils until he wheezes himself awake.

“What,”—

“I want to show you something,” B says.

L’s pupils dilate, then shrink. He blinks until his eyes focus. “And you thought this would be a good time?”

“Yes.”

L sighs, sits up. He’s still bleary, though he tries not to be. The circles beneath his eyes have deepened since B started haunting his bedroom, but he has become less afraid. That’s what happens with ghosts: you get used to them.

“What is it, then?”

“It’s a mystery.”

L blinks. “You think you can get me to go along with it if you just use that word?”

“I think I can get you to go along with it no matter what words I use.” B smiles with all his baby teeth. “I’m a clue. You’re a detective.”

“I��m not,”—

“This is the only chance. I’ll tell you a secret tonight, or I’ll never tell you, but we have to go now.”

“Go where?”

B flares his nostrils emphatically.

L opens his mouth, then closes it. He doesn’t ask anymore questions. He doesn’t like B, but he likes knowing things that other people don’t. He stands and begins to dress, shedding the blanket to pull on a tattered pair of denims that waits by the foot of the bed. B’s pulse flutters at the severe immaculateness of his skin.

“I did some research,” L mumbles, as he fastens the button. “Combining the incident with the dog, the information on file after your interview with that psychiatrist, and my own testimony, I would have more than enough evidence to have you transferred out of the care of Wammy’s House and into a children’s psychological hospital.” He gives B a false and unnecessary smile. “If I ever felt the need.”

B sucks on his teeth. A fear of his lives within that threat, but it is not the one L thinks it is.

“Come on,” he says. “Come on come on come on.”

L comes on.

—

The field behind the abandoned barn is yellowing and bare, pocked with stumps and crushed beer cans. Teenagers from town drive out here to fumble over the center consoles of their parents’ middle class cars, or sit on the hoods and tap ash off the ends of their cigarettes, hollering and laughing and seeing none of the things that move in the dark. It is empty tonight. B made sure.

The walk from Wammy’s isn’t long but it is full of brambles and sharp stones, and neither he nor L wears shoes. The matchbook is so light in his pocket that he has to keep reaching in to make sure it’s there. Something shudders in the bushes beside them, and L stiffens.

“I want to say up front that if you’re taking me out here to kill me, you better uphold the sanctity of our organization and not do a hack job of it.”

B tugs him by his sleeve, leading him down a footpath that he knows by sensation and not sight. “You wouldn’t want me caught?”

“I won’t really care if I’m dead, will I?”

“You don’t believe that anything of the soul survives?”

“I don’t believe in the soul.”

B laughs, skittering and high-pitched.

“Is that funny to you? Excuse me if I don’t get it.”

B glances backwards and sees him crowned by the waxing moon: silhouette crooked, disgust unconcealed.

He says, “You will.”

When they arrive at the barn, L crosses his arms over his chest and glances around, feigned impassivity overshadowing his nerves. “Well. Glad I woke up in the middle of the night for this.”

B doesn’t respond, just gets out the canister of petrol from where he’d tucked it beneath the old haystack and unscrews the cap. There were many steps to this plan before the one they’re on. There was theft and deception and skullduggery. There were kids in a Ford Fiesta that had their windshield smashed with a brick on their way to this field. There were crickets in the tall grasses that warned him not to, but B had and B does.

L’s mouth opens and his posture loses its disdain, gains something comparable to horror, but softer. “You,” he breathes, as B lifts up the canister and pours the contents over his own head.

L steps toward him, expression contorting, fingers crumpling over something that isn’t there to be grabbed. B watches him through the stream of petrol, yellow and stinking bright. His eyes burn, but he won’t look away from the place where fear wars with fascination across L’s face, crumpling his brow and grinding his jaw. He is deformed by pity. By the time he manages to shake himself into action and knock the container from B’s hands, it’s already done. He’s fully doused. Highly flammable. It is a question with a straightforward answer. It is a gift that B is giving to L, and all L has to do is accept it.

“Yo—u’re,”—B’s never heard L’s voice shake like this.

He tucks it away to obsess about later, and reaches into his pocket. The matchbook says Century Automotive on it, with a phone number and address. L doesn’t catch it, just lets it hit him in the chest, and then blinks down at where it falls to the ground, as if he cannot comprehend its arrival. He shakes his head in tiny jerks.

“I—no.”

“Come on,” B goads. “It has to be you. I want to show you what I can do. I want to show you what you can do to me.”

L takes a step backward. “No, there’s no way. You’re insane.”

B picks up the matchbook, and holds it out to him. “No, I’m something else. I think I’m something else. Don’t you want to know what I am?”

L keeps on shaking his head. “No, no, I don’t. I really don’t.”

“Come on,” B says, grappling for his wrist. L jerks away so fast that B trips after him, falling heavily onto his hands and knees and coming away stuck with dirt and stray grass. “You’re not playing right,” he breathes at the ground.

“This isn’t a game,” L snaps down at him, voice rending with a tenor of panic precious in its rarity. “You’re asking me to light you on fire.”

“Yes,” B says. His eyes keep stinging more and more. He wonders if he’ll go blind and for how long. He tries to keep his grip on L, but he’s kicked off easily. He is small and L is large. He is burning and L is cold cold cold. “Please.”

L picks the matchbook up off the ground and runs, turning jerkily and plodding on bare feet, tripping into and around things, incompetent in the night with his daylight eyes, not even heading in quite the right direction, but going so fast. Not looking back.

B’s sinuses burn. When the tears come, he doesn’t argue with them. He sits in the scrubby grass, sniffling and trying not to vomit, but the smell makes his stomach roll, skin irritated, burning and healing, burning and healing. He’s deflated and very cold. The moment he’d planned with such excruciating care flickers out of his future, replaced by a long walk home, reeking of gasoline. His face clogs, nose stinging, phlegmy and impotent. L was supposed to set him alight, and he was supposed to work a miracle. He feels a miracle bottled up within his ribcage, desperate to get out.

He cries until his head throbs and his throat scrapes. He cries until he remembers, with sobering pleasure, that L had taken the matchbook. L had taken the matchbook so that B wouldn’t have it.

So that B wouldn’t—

—

Burn. He doesn’t want him to burn.

—

B drips petrol through the house. Dawn blurs purple behind him, and the floorboards do him no favors. A’s waiting for him at the top of the stairs, a dense Richard Dawkins open in his lap, miniature torch clamped between his teeth. He doesn’t look surprised to see B, but he winces with the smell of him.

“What’s—oh. God. What did he do to you?”

B blinks at him. “Nothing, unfortunately.”

“You’re….” He breathes deeply. “Well. Come on.”

He takes him to the washroom at the end of the hall, turns both the taps so that the pipes clatter within the walls and the steam rises slowly. B sinks into the bath, but the water alone doesn’t get him clean, so A coats in foamy soap and scrubs, shaking his head, chewing his lip, looking ready to make some apology that he doesn’t owe and that B doesn’t deserve. There exist certain misunderstandings between them that B is hesitant to correct. A shampoos his hair with tender hands and he is reborn out of the ashes that he never became.

“You shouldn’t—you should just give up on him. Some people are better off left alone.”

B slumps down in the water, bubbles tickling his chin. “I’m not one of them.”

“I know. But he is.”

“He’s me.”

“He’s not.” A shoves his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Just, factually.”

“I’m him. I’m becoming him. I can feel my fingers getting longer.”

“Normal growing pains.”

“There’s a bump rising in my nose.” He points.

A takes his slippery jaw in his slippery hand and turns his face one way, then the other. “There isn’t.”

B jerks out of his grip. “Maybe you just can’t see it. Maybe only he and I can see it.”

“Do you really think,” A asks, with a depth of sympathy that disgusts him, “that he can see it?”

B turns the hot water up.